The Bard In The Bodycount
by casket4mytears
Summary: Still on shaky ground as she readjusts post-fugitive life, Brennan finds that for one killer, all the world's a stage - literally. As the Bard-inspired bodies continue to pile up, she finds herself giving a crash course in Shakespeare to the Jeffersonian. But will it be enough to catch the killer - or save their own lives? B&B, Hodgela, character exploration and dark comedy.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: Welcome, lovelies, to my second multi for Bones! As I've mentioned to a few people, I've been plotting a casefic for some time (wait, don't go!), one with a bit of a lighter element (think The Mummy In the Maze) but also, serious character development moments.**_

_**This fic is set in season 8, post 8X02. Spoilers through that episode. At times, I may tie in "canon" from my one-shot series, but you don't need to read them first. You can, though, because I enjoyed writing them and love feedback.  
**_

_**B&B, Hodgela, and a healthy love of The Bard are at play here. Don't worry; characters will mock his work if you loathe it. Something for everyone! I deliver, my pretties.  
**_

_**I disclaim, although Hart Hanson can offer me a job as a writer and I will take it NOW. Rated for violence, language, a twist of lemon and all that good stuff. Also, this chapter is admittedly a bit short, but it IS the pre-opening credits section. **_**  
**

* * *

"Are you sure this is the right way?"

Jenny's feet dug in, yanking her companion to a halt. Her shoulders ached from the prolonged weight of the backpack, her legs were sore and more importantly, they'd yet to actually begin rehearsing their scene. And while Colin was rather hot, Jenny had no time for romance in her life. If this was his grand attempt at seduction, she was going to beat him with her anthology.

"Jen, it's just through there and across the creek," Colin protested. "I promise you, the scenery is so perfect, it'll make rehearsal a breeze."

He flashed that panty-dropper of a smile at her again and she relented, following him along the rough trail through the woods. Maybe it was a long walk, but she had to admit that the towering trees and faint song of birds really did capture the vibe of the play.

"Who built a treehouse out here, anyway?" Jenny asked. "And how did you find it?"

"One of the frats built it two decades ago," Colin replied, huffing as he dodged a large exposed root that threatened to claim his ankle as a victim. "We restored it two years ago. It's a great spot to have a drink or smoke up, but it also has this beautiful view of the creek. I like to wander out here when working on scriptwriting assignments."

Hand in hand, he led her around a shady bend, revealing a sudden drop-off. The sound of rushing water reassured Jenny. _I'm being ridiculous. Colin's only two spots behind me in the program standings. He wouldn't screw around on a mid-term_.

"It drops off over there," Colin explained, pointing downstream.

"Cool. Thanks for doing this, by the way. My roommate's such a noisy bitch, I can't get anything done."

"I hear ya. Last year, my roomie was constantly drunk and throwing up on our floor." Colin rolled his eyes, sneakers skidding along a muddy decline. "Careful, here."

Jenny gasped as she slid halfway down, relieved that Colin was there to steady her. She was dreading the return trip. Her shoes were coated in thick globs of mud and the hill had no traction at all. _Maybe Colin could carry me back up_, she thought absently. _He looks strong enough_.

"And just over here, we..."

"We what?"

Jenny followed Colin's gaze and clamped her hand across her mouth, stifling a scream.

* * *

"Watch your step, Bones; it's been raining for days."

"I'm well aware of the weather conditions for the area, Booth," Brennan replied, slightly annoyed. "You, on the other hand, should have heeded my warning and brought your hiking boots."

"What? I'm fine!"

Brennan stifled a laugh as her partner slid halfway down the hill, rescued by a large tree trunk. It reminded her of the cartoons she and Christine often watched during her time away. That line of thinking immediately killed the urge to laugh, the familiar sensation of a squeeze near her heart kicking in. Angela called it heartache, but it wasn't an ache, so the term seemed a tremendous misnomer. It was a physical reminder of the loneliness and guilt that lingered beneath warm embraces and passionate lovemaking, an echo of the pain she knew she'd caused Booth.

He'd forgiven her. He'd sworn it. And yet, she could not forgive herself, although the precise reason why eluded her.

"Bones?"

Brennan glanced up, shaking her head slightly. "Sorry, I must be tired."

Dr. Saroyan was already examining the scene, coordinating the perimeter. Dr. Hodgins was five feet away, collecting samples of the shoreline soil and water. These tasks were routine and of little interest. Brennan's eyes were drawn to the swath of white sheer linen, from which protruded the skeletal arm of the remains.

"Has the crime scene been thoroughly documented with photographs?" she called out.

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," Cam replied. "Although we haven't determined that it's a crime scene. It could be a drowning."

"Certainly not!" Brennan protested, approaching the creek carefully. "Doesn't anyone else recognize this? It's iconic imagery."

She glanced back at Booth, noting his furrowed brow. _Thinking face_, she thought. He wasn't cognizant of the symbolic intent. Turning to Dr. Hodgins, she waved him closer.

"Didn't you notice the herbs and flowers?" she asked briskly.

"What? Where?"

"Granted, they're small and tangled within the dress, but they're certainly visible." Brennan gestured to the camera nearby. "I'm the first to admit when pop culture references evade me, but this is classic literature. Mandatory study in high school, from what I recall."

Cam joined her, wading out into the creek gingerly beside her. "Wait... Yes, I see them." The camera fired several times as Brennan tilted her head, studying the angle of the arm. "Dr. Brennan, are those pansies?"

"Of course!" Hodgins exclaimed. "Nice catch, Dr. B.!"

"Uh, would someone like to clue me in? Why do pansies matter and how does that prove murder?" Booth grumbled.

"Well, in addition to the fracture across the temporal region of the skull," Brennan began, reaching beneath the surface, "this is clearly a staged tableau of the death of Ophelia. Given the lack of reasonable explanation for a self-inflicted fracture, it's likely someone arranged the body after striking the victim."

"Ophelia? As in Shakespeare?" Booth asked.

Brennan nodded, gently shifting the nebulous garment aside. "As in _Hamlet_. One of his better tragedies," she added, studying the pelvic bones. "Female, Caucasian, nulliparous... I'd estimate age between sixteen and twenty-five, but I can narrow it down at the lab. The bones aren't fully exposed within the shroud."

Around her, voices blurred into a white noise of instructions for collection and delivery, observations and speculation as she emerged from the creek. _Rosemary, rue, pansies and fennel_, she noted silently. Someone had taken great care with the details of this scene and it concerned her deeply. This level of planning suggested a collected demeanor, a peace with the act of taking a life.

"What is it, Bones?" Booth asked quietly.

"This won't be the only victim," she answered reluctantly. "This has just begun."

* * *

_**Do we all remember how fun it was when Brennan quoted The Mummy film? Oh yes, we're going to have that sort of fun ahead... Set your alerts and get ready... This is going to be what I feel is a long overdue episode!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: Wow, thanks for the warm welcome for good ol' William Shakespeare! This fic's been itching to be written for months and I'm so glad people see the potential for Bones and Shakespeare united! Here comes another chapter, also a little short, but I figured giving you a little more right away was better than holding back for a few days to build a longer chapter. Enjoy!  
**_

* * *

"You've been quiet all day."

Brennan heard the question beneath Booth's observation. _What's wrong with you? Are you upset?_ The pendulum had swung once more, from carefully treading between his moments of frustration and anger to the man who'd drunkenly demanded she choose to stay and drink or sever their partnership, the hurt man who questioned why he wasn't able to win love from women. The previous week, Angela had insisted on a girls' night out, the two of them polishing off three bottles of wine while dissecting Booth's behaviour and psyche. She could always trust Angela to see what she missed; in matters of love and relationships, she was the genius scientist.

"Maybe he's afraid the time apart will somehow make you want to leave him," Angela had posited.

"That's absurd. I love Booth," she'd protested.

"Booth is the kind of guy who spent his life believing he wasn't enough for anyone, sweetie. His dad; his mom; his brother; a string of women... To you, it's learning to make pancakes; to him, it's no longer being able to extend a gesture of his love, this special thing he could offer you. And for you two, it's been such a long and complicated road that maybe a part of him feels like he's in a waking coma dream, where he'll blink and lose you all over again."

"You can't be in a coma and be conscious," Brennan had said, quickly adding, "But I understand that it's a metaphor."

A glance sideways revealed that pensiveness in his eyes from the morning after they'd first made love. He'd been afraid that it had all been biological urges, without feeling or commitment. Her hypothesis was correct then. Maybe Angela was right now.

"I don't feel as energetic as I usually do," she replied at last. Truthful, but merely the effect, not the cause.

"Maybe you're coming down with something," Booth suggested. "I think the daycare said a bug was going around."

"That's a logical explanation. Children tend to transmit common illnesses far more readily to others than adults do."

His hand came to rest on her knee, squeezing lightly. "Well tonight, you take it easy, alright? We'll order in and I'll take care of Christine. Let the Squints handle the body."

"You know I can't do that," she countered gently. "But I will call it an early night, as compared to my usual preferences."

She wished she could articulate what was wrong, name the emotions that refused to leave her in peace. Booth was good at metaphorical heart matters; he would surely know how to comfort her. But the language was lost to her, left behind in a childhood of happy memories that were half-lies from her earliest recollections forward.

Booth made the turn into the hospital parking lot, grumbling about speed bumps as she turned her attention to the notes on her lap. One of the college students who'd found the remains had gone into severe shock and had been transported for medical observation and treatment, while the other had accompanied her out of concern. The vehicle came to a jerky halt, Booth rushing to exit. He hated hospitals, even when he wasn't the patient. Tucking her notes in her bag, she joined him, pulling his arm and kissing him lightly on the lips.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Bones," he murmured.

"While I am an independent and capable woman, I do appreciate your care and support," she added with a small smile.

Pensive Booth was gone, leaving a grinning man in his place. _At least I can make him feel better_, she thought. _He shouldn't worry. He is more than enough for me_. His hand pressed against the small of her back, they made their way into the ER in search of Jenny Saunders and Colin O'Reilly.

They found them in triage cubicle: Jenny had clearly been sedated, her eyelids drooping as her companion kept a silent vigil. Upon seeing Booth's flashed badge, Colin gestured to the hallway, a finger pressed to his lips.

"She really needs to sleep," he explained quietly. "Apparently her sister drowned when she was three. Jenny found her."

"That's awful," Brennan murmured.

Booth nodded. "We just need to ask a few questions about today and we'll let you get back to your girlfriend."

"Oh, she's not my girlfriend," Colin protested. "I mean, I wouldn't mind, but Jenny is very devoted to her studies. We're friends."

"How did you come across the body?"

"Jenny and I had a midterm assignment due soon. We have to rework a scene from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ in modern-day English. I suggested we go out to the woods, being as the play takes place in a forest."

"It actually is a very ideal setting to stage that play," Brennan commented. "_Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine_."

"Awesome! You get it." Colin grinned at her, then continued. "Anyway, we were headed to this treehouse-type structure I know of that's just beyond the creek, when I saw the body. I called for help, but Jenny broke down crying."

Booth frowned. "There's a treehouse in the middle of a park?"

"Yeah. It was apparently built ages ago. One of the frats did it. The secret passes on and on to new students."

"Do people go there a lot?" Brennan asked.

"Sure they do, although the last few weeks have been terrible for weather. I've only gone out there maybe once."

Brennan shot a look at Booth. The silent exchange was understood.

"And that's the only way in to this treehouse thing?" Booth asked.

"Yeah." Colin shook his head. "Do you know if it's Violet?"

"Violet?"

"Violet Richter. She's a senior in our program. She went missing two months ago," Colin explained. "Fuck, we even joked that someone killed her to score the lead in the school production. It's really competitive. But if it's her... I feel like crap."

_Two months? That body's been there maybe a month,_ Brennan noted silently.

"What program is this?"

"Theatre and Dramatic Arts, over at Morgan Ashford Academy. It's a stepping stone into NYU for most of us. The director's insane, but he's well connected, so we all try to stay on his good side. Even if he does have a boner for Shakespeare." His eyes tracked back to the triage unit. "Do you need anything else? I really want to get back to Jenny."

"That's fine," Booth answered. "If we have any further questions, we have your information."

"Thanks. I really hope it's not Violet..."

Colin's head bowed as he rounded the corner back into the cubicle. Gesturing for Booth to follow her, Brennan moved briskly towards the exit.

"I need to call Hodgins."

"Something's wrong."

"If the remains are Violet Richter, the high traffic of the area suggests that she should have been found sooner. There was a strange residue on her clothing that I noted at the scene." Frowning, she continued. "The time of death is also disturbing."

"I thought you weren't sure about that yet."

"I'm not certain, but given the level of decomposition and the water, that body would have been completely skeletal in two months. There was significant tissue remaining on the torso."

Booth grimaced. "I really don't like this one."

Her phone was already in hand, dialing the lab as she opened the car door. "Hodgins? Have you examined the clothing for particulates yet?" His answer confirmed her suspicions. "Keep narrowing it down, then. Tell Angela we have a possible ID: a Violet Richter has been missing from the college for two months... Exactly. I'll be back at the lab soon to assist."

"Bones? What's the look for?"

"Hodgins suspects from particulate evidence that the body was weighted beneath the surface for a period of time. More importantly, he and Cam concur that the victim has been dead for no more than five weeks."

"Meaning either this isn't Violet Richter –"

"Or someone held her captive for a month or more before weighing her body down beneath the surface," Brennan finished.

* * *

_**The plot thickens... and the next chapter will only continue to puzzle Brennan and her team. We're off to the lab next chapter!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN: Warning: I have a very busy weekend ahead, so another update is unlikely. I'll do my best! I still don't own Bones (and sadly, I don't write for the show, although TPTB can hire me any day). I don't own Shakespeare, either. I do own a Forensics textbook from my course years ago. Better than nothing!**_

_**For those who read Gone..., Booth alludes to a non-spoilery moment in this chapter. While this story is rooted in show-canon, I'm borrowing a tidbit from my version of the hiatus for fun.**_

* * *

Cam was used to the interns loitering during autopsies, impatiently awaiting their bones for cleaning and study. She was used to Daisy's incessant prattling about things she never wanted to know, including Sweets' underwear preference (boxer briefs); she was used to Wendell blathering on about sports and Dr. Edison's obsession with binders. She'd also grown accustomed to Mr. Abernathy's strange slang – had even found herself repeating a few of the more fun curses.

What she was not used to, as she finished her examination of the remnants of the ileum, was Mr. Fisher reciting Shakespeare quotations.

"_When beggars die, there are no comets seen_," Fisher was now quoting, genuinely upset as he examined the remains. "Abusing Shakespeare in the name of murder? I'm personally invested in this one."

"And why would that be, Mr. Fisher?" Cam asked, noting to herself that the victim had eaten the day of her death, although the precise contents were difficult to discern.

"Shakespeare's work is flawed, often cribbed from other writers or utterly melodramatic, but it's timeless. The man had a gift with poetic phrases. _Hamlet_ is my favourite of his tragedies. How can you read such an eloquent piece of dramatic prose and kill someone? _Hamlet _evokes a desire to analyze the history of great leaders and their ultimate ruin, or to contemplate family dysfunction." Shaking his head in sadness, he tilted his head to examine the skull. "_O rose of May, Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!_ We'll see justice served... Dr. Saroyan, did you note this fracture to the temporal lobe?"

"I did. Dr. Brennan noted it at the scene." Cam was suddenly nostalgic for the intern's herbal teas and showtune ringtones.

"This wasn't a fatal blow," he continued.

"Really?"

"Look at the bone. This didn't lead to significant bleeding. The clean fracture lines suggest a perimortem wound, but I doubt this killed her. Stunned her, maybe."

"Hmm... The trouble is, we have no lung tissue with which to work to ascertain the probability of drowning. There are no findings pathognomic of drowning in the deceased."

"Aside from the staging of a famous drowning? Diatoms?" Fisher suggested.

Cam sighed. "At this point, it might be all we have to go on. Let Dr. Brennan know when she arrives and make sure we get a decent sample of the bone marrow from several places."

With a nod, Fisher slipped out of the room, nearly colliding with an unhappy Angela. Cam sighed, knowing what was coming.

"It's her, isn't it?"

"She was nineteen, Cam. She should be eating popcorn at a movie right now." With a frown, she added, "These are the cases that make this job god-awful."

"Then maybe I shouldn't tell you the estimated time of death," Cam replied, pulling off her gloves.

"Yeah, leave me in the dark, please. Or rather, the light; this would be the darkness." Angela gestured to the remains with a grimace. "I hate working with them when they're not fully skeletal. Can I go shop for shoes on the Angelatron or something?"

Cam studied her computer expert carefully. "Angela, are you alright?"

"Not really. Maybe I need a break. A long one."

Cam watched as Angela retreated without waiting for a response, her mind recalling the last few months. Angela had become the Dr. Brennan of the Jeffersonian in her absence, keeping long hours as she worked the Sawyer case around their mounting caseload from Agent Flynn. She'd tested Cam's limits countless times, but all had been forgiven; Cam could read the pain on the faces of the team, particularly an exiled Booth. How could she judge their behaviour? It was her insistence on playing by the rules that sent the anthropologist into the unknown for months.

The sound of sliding glass caught her attention and Cam glanced up, watching Dr. Brennan stride purposefully into the room, Booth just behind her. Something didn't quite seem right – maybe something in Booth's posture as he walked? _God, I hope they're not fighting again. Seeley swore they'd worked through the worst of it_.

"Do we have an ID?" Booth asked.

Cam nodded. "Markers were a match; Angela confirmed it with dentals just now. Violet Richter's our Ophelia."

"Damn it!" the agent muttered. "I was hoping it wasn't her."

"So was I. The bones are ready to be cleaned, although we need to collect marrow samples as well. Mr. Fisher's aware."

Brennan sighed sadly. "You suspect drowning."

"But what about the hit to the head?" Booth asked.

"I'll leave the final analysis to Dr. Brennan, but Fisher believes it to be perimortem, but not fatal. Unfortunately, without the lung tissue remaining intact, there's no way to easily ascertain drowning."

"I need to examine the remains," Brennan stated firmly.

Booth nodded knowingly. "I'm going to swing by the Hoover, get Sweets to work this bastard up."

"Fisher certainly thinks he's a psychopath for marring the work of William Shakespeare," Cam noted wryly.

"Fisher loves Shakespeare," Booth replied. "Quoted him for me a few times this summer. Call me when you find something, Bones."

Cam watched the couple part, noticing Dr. Brennan's troubled look as she turned from her partner's watchful gaze and the worried glance back over Seeley's shoulder. _It's not the relationship; it's her he's worried about_. Maybe she'd swing by Angela's office and tip her off. If anyone could get through to her, it would be Angela.

* * *

Predictably, Sweets had gotten a head start on a profile, for which Booth was grateful. The eagerness of the psychologist to help was sometimes grating, but mostly, it was a tremendous asset. With Booth's mind pulled in several directions, he needed the fresh eyes and clear head of their Baby Duck.

"So this guy not only took the care to stage a famous scene, but possibly kept the woman alive for weeks before killing her?" Sweets asked.

"Yeah. Bones is certain there'll be more vics and I agree. This wasn't an impulsive kill. He may have actually drowned her, too."

"That's disturbing, but highly revealing. The killer's attention to detail is unusually high. Guy's likely a perfectionist, hypercritical of himself and others. The staging and the care taken to get the details right, it all speaks to someone with a very calculated approach. He has a message. He wants us to pay attention, perhaps even admire his work." Sweets leaned back in his chair. "I'll shoot the full report to you in the next hour or two."

"Copy Cam on it, too." Booth paused, mulling his choice of words. "Does Bones seem alright to you?"

"Why do you ask? Doesn't she seem alright to you?"

"Sweets, I'm asking a question."

"And I'm clarifying it," the shrink countered. "If you're trying to ask if Dr. Brennan has been here to see me again, she hasn't been. I haven't seen her in two weeks."

The kid was good: he'd known what he was _really_ getting at. Booth leaned against the wall, debating how much to tell him.

"Can we talk and keep it between us?"

"Of course we can." Sweets leaned forward, visibly concerned. "Is Dr. Brennan having a hard time adjusting to returning home?"

"I don't think so. If anything, we fought before because she seemed _too _adjusted. Like it wasn't a big deal. But she's upset about something, and she won't tell me what it is. She's got that damn wall of hers up, like she always used to. I mean, before we became _we_."

"Well, that's not surprising. Dr. Brennan has always constructed walls around emotions she finds too difficult or overwhelming to cope with."

Booth frowned. "Look, the last time she was this closed up was when I was with Hannah. Do you see why I'm freaked out?"

"You think she's pulling away from you," Sweets concluded.

"Maybe time away gave her perspective on me... Made her realize that I'm not what she expected or whatever. Forget it, I didn't say that. I'll figure it out."

As Booth stormed towards the door, Sweets rose and cut him off. His hand pushed against the agent's shoulder, which was pointless given the disparity in physical strength between them. Booth paused, however, knowing that he had something important to say. Why else would he risk a broken hand?

"Look Booth, I can't tell you what exactly is going on with her. I can tell you that given her talk with me a few weeks ago and the openness she's displayed in approaching your understandable anger at time lost and her own hurt at losing time with you –" He paused as Booth's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Yes, she's had to work through her own loneliness during that time. Anyway, the point I want to make is this: it's not you. You two? You're solid. You complement each other in a way that no one else ever could for either of you. The experience of being a fugitive, of breaking the laws she cares about and leaving you behind – that changes someone. Whatever it is, it's too much for her right now. I do know that when she does work through it, she'll open up to you. She trusts you; she doesn't trust her own interpretations of her emotions."

Booth felt a tremendous weight lift. _It's not me. Sweets is right: Bones would call me on it if I'd done something. She's honest to a fault._ In hearing the doctor's opinion, he did have a suspicion of what might be wrong, and if he was right... Well, he hoped she wouldn't suffer in silence for long.

"Thanks, Sweets."

"It's what I do."

* * *

"Dr. Hodgins has the samples?'

"Yes, Dr. Brennan. He should have results within the hour," Fisher replied.

Brennan nodded thoughtfully. "Then it's time we let the bones speak."

Examining the skull carefully, she understood why Fisher had been reluctant to label the head wound as the cause of death. Although certainly inflicted close to time of death, there was certainly as strong possibility of being alive for a period of time afterwards. Violet Richter would have died eventually without medical care, but she could have indeed gone underwater before death.

"Your theory, Mr. Fisher?"

"The killer incapacitated her with the blow – the damage and implied force suggest an object of opportunity, like a heavy lamp, for example. Once unconscious, he weighs her down beneath the surface, poses her and walks away. Her hands show no signs of struggle, no clenching in rigor. As the man himself would say, _'as one incapable of her own distress_.'"

"I'll await Dr. Hodgins' findings, but the evidence supports that narrative. I –" Brennan paused, feeling her phone vibrate in her pocket. "One moment."

She examined the caller display, expecting Booth's name. At the sight of the actual caller's name, she immediately bounced the call to voicemail.

"That can wait," she stated calmly. "Let's continue."

She certainly wanted it to wait. But given the increasing frequency of the calls, she knew she was running short on time. Sooner or later, her father would show up in person and demand answers. If only she had them...

* * *

_**Baby Duck's a lot more lovable lately, at least to me. He's matured a lot. I look forward to the demise of Swaisy to complete his growing up. Thanks for all the reviews so far. My job's driving me batty and it's been a great cheer up! Booth-wise, looks like Angela figured him out in chapter two, didn't she?**_

_**As for Brennan... well, we'll start gathering together the pieces of her suppressed turmoil next chapter in more detailed fashion.  
**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**AN: Look at that - an update earlier than even I expected! Brennan felt chatty tonight. Long chapter coming up!  
**_

_**I still don't own Bones. Hmm. I also don't own song lyrics belonging to Irene Cara's Flashdance, although the very first concert I attended as a pre-schooler was hers, and it remains one of my nostalgic favourites.  
**_

* * *

A long night with Fisher at the lab had proven informative on the Violet Richter case, although questions remained. Further analysis of bone marrow indicated the presence of diatoms, and while it was not conclusive for drowning, it was as conclusive as they would ever get, aside from a confession. Although often irritating, Brennan had found his company strangely soothing in the midst of her personal turmoil: they'd traded stories about disastrous productions of Shakespearean plays they'd taken in over the years, particularly amused that each had seen a terrible take on _Measure For Measure_. Something about this case had affected her intern and it lent a focus to him that revealed a mature and capable mind. Brennan had made note of it for her summary reports for his program advisors, due in a few weeks.

Booth was true to his word, preparing dinner for the two of them and taking care of Christine's needs, although he chided her for staying at work until seven. She reminded herself that he never restrained her passion for work unless she was ill in some way and accepted it as a loving gesture. A quick apology for causing him worry and a promise to retire early had led to the two of them heading to bed early, quietly cuddled together as he watched a movie about organized crime and she skimmed through an article on a dig in Guatemala that she'd turned down due to pregnancy. She had been somewhat pleased that no major finds were recovered; as immature as it was, she had dreaded the thought of not being present for a major advancement in her field. Of course, she would never admit this to Booth, because she didn't want to upset him. His accusation that she would prefer to still be a fugitive – and more significantly, away from him – still rang in her metaphorical ears, and she refused to provide any fact that could be misconstrued to support his angry outburst. Even though he'd apologized, she'd learned from Booth long ago that outbursts often betrayed suppressed truths.

"Where's the turn-off again?" Booth asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

Checking the map, she replied, "About three miles ahead, on the right. The campus should be visible shortly after the turn."

The radio hummed low with a song she didn't know, beyond it being part of Booth's vast vinyl collection. She'd suggested the radio as a means of avoiding discussion, although she'd framed it as a way to wake herself up. She pretended that Booth believed the excuse, and Booth seemed to be playing along.

_I have to talk to him eventually_, she rebuked herself. _But I have to know what I need to talk about first_. Any time she'd attempted a serious conversation without forethought, she'd managed to inadvertently offend. She didn't dare hurt him again. Not now. Not when things were so very fragile.

The campus, as it had been denoted in their reports, was more of a set of three large buildings that were collectively the size of a city high school. It was a private school, one with strong connections to the best Drama programs in North America. It was also the school that Jenny, Colin and Violet all attended. If anyone had any idea of what had happened to Violet Richter two months prior, it would likely be one of her equally competitive classmates.

"Which building do you think is the administration office?" Booth asked, stepping out onto the damp concrete.

"We're better off to seek out the students where they most certainly will be today," Brennan replied, gesturing to a posted notice nearby. "Auditions are today in the auditorium... which is over there."

"Good call. If Violet was the best in her program, then perhaps someone with a motive might be auditioning for a female lead today."

His hand pressed against the small of her back as they made their way across the parking lot and she felt herself relax slightly. Today was a good day. A day where things seemed as they were before Pelant had tried to ruin their lives. These were the days where she could almost pretend that she and Booth were as structurally sound as their Mighty Hut. But then, they opened the door to the actual theatre within the building and she nearly doubled over in shock.

A young woman was singing on stage, accompanying herself on piano. This was not unusual, given the circumstances. It was the song she sang that caught Brennan entirely off-guard and had her grinding to a halt.

"Bones? What's wrong?"

Swallowing hard, she managed to quietly explain before the memory overtook her. "My mother loved this song."

_She was eight years old, and her latest treasure was her very own copy of _Gray's Anatomy_. Her father had found it in the discard bin at the library and bought it for three dollars. It was an older edition, with numerous pencil and pen annotations from countless patrons over the years, but it was hers and she loved it. Some of the annotations were even informative._

_In the kitchen, she could hear the radio between bursts of the electric mixer and the opening and shutting of their squeaky cupboards. It was Russ' birthday and her mother was making him his cake of choice: angel food cake with a special buttercream icing and rainbow sprinkles. _

_Her mother cheered in the kitchen and Temperance rolled her eyes, smiling. It was a song her mother played often, usually when her father was gone. He preferred loud guitars and harsh drums, while her mother liked happy-sounding melodies. Her mother began singing along and she paused in her reading, quietly listening. Her mother sounded so beautiful. She hoped when she grew up that she could sing just as well while her future children studied their own copies of _Gray's Anatomy_. _

_"Tempe! Come in here!"_

_"Mom, I'm reading!"_

_"It can wait, baby." Her mother peered out of the kitchen, grinning. "Come sing with me!"_

_"But the respiratory system—"_

_Her mother refused to take no for an answer, marching over to her and pulling her to her feet. "Tempe, intelligence and studies are very important, but you need balance. You need fun, too. And I need a back-up singer," she added, grinning._

_She found herself following her mother to the kitchen, where the well-blended bowl of cake batter sat abandoned on the counter. Her mother winked and yanked open a drawer, retrieving a wooden spoon._

_"Your microphone, miss!" her mother said with a giggle._

_"But you sound better than I do, Mom."_

_"You sing like an angel, honey. I promise. Now here comes the chorus!"_

_And with that, her mother snatched up the batter-coated spoon, gave it a lick and they both began to sing._

_"What a feeling! Being's believing!"_

_Temperance twirled around as her mother did so, singing at the top of her lungs. No one else was home, so it didn't matter if she sounded terrible. Her mother yanked out two chairs from the kitchen table and lifted Temperance to stand on one, quickly following suit._

_"Now I hear the music. Close my eyes, I am rhythm. In a flash, it takes hold... Take the lead, sweetie!"_

_With flushed cheeks, Temperance complied. "What a feeling! Being's believing! I can have it all. Now I'm dancing for my life."_

_"Take your passion," her mother sang. "And make it happen! Pictures come alive – now I'm dancing through my life..."_

"Bones?"

Brennan shook her head, dispelling her memory. "Hmm?"

"You weren't answering me. Where did you go, just now?"

He was worried. Guiltily, she averted her gaze as the present loomed large.

"My mother sang this far better," she mumbled, storming down the centre aisle towards the stage.

She didn't have time for this. A young woman lay murdered in the lab and she deserved her justice. She deserved her voice and Brennan would give it back to her. She wouldn't find the answers she needed in her own childhood. Noticing a man with a clipboard in the third row staring intently at the student on stage, she made her way towards him briskly.

"Excuse me, but are you the director?"

"I am, and you're interrupting closed auditions," he hissed.

"Yeah, well I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI, and you're just going to have to place them on hold," Booth chimed in beside her.

With a rolling of his eyes, the director rose to his feet. "Kimberly, I am dreadfully sorry, but I need to stop you early."

Her fingers froze on the piano as she stared at the partners. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You mean, besides being off-key for every high note?" Brennan asked aloud.

"No, you did a wonderful job," the director assured her, glaring at Brennan.

"Could I get everyone out here in front of the stage?" Booth's voice echoed loudly through the theatre. "We need to ask a few questions."

Ten students – some in costumes that Brennan found either strange or unflattering – appeared before them, including the young woman they'd interrupted. As Booth explained their purpose for the intrusion, several gasped and one girl burst into tears. The director, for his part, blanched noticeably and offered his personal office backstage for interviews.

The first few students knew very little of help: Violet was well-liked but quiet about her personal life, preferring to remain focused on her aspirations of Broadway stardom. She had a background in ballet but had damaged her ankle in high school and switched career paths, according to the weeping student, who'd been Violet's roommate the previous year.

The student whose audition had been interrupted seemed to harbour animosity towards the victim. She made irrelevant comments about her talents in between answering their questions and Brennan found herself impatient to be done with her.

The last student, Evan Mackenzie, was of the most use to their investigation. He was able to give the partners an idea of her rough schedule, the name of her gym and noted that the last he'd seen her, she was meeting a date near the auditorium.

"Did she say who she was meeting?" Booth asked.

"No, and I didn't pry. We weren't super close. Friendly rivals, really," Evan replied, leaning back in his chair.

"Men don't compete for the same roles as women," Brennan interjected.

"Yeah, but NYU only tends to take one, maybe two students each year from this campus," Evan explained. "If it was going to be one student, it was going to be me. We were competing to stand out during school productions and summer stock."

"What time was the date?" Booth asked.

Evan shrugged. "Um... It was after five for sure, because I ran into her after my vocal class. She was meeting the guy soon, so maybe no later than six?"

Booth nodded, rising to his feet. "If you think of anything else, let us know." He handed the actor a card, glancing at Brennan.

She knew that look: _Booth's got a bad feeling about something._ As he opened the door, Booth glanced around for the director.

"Where did the guy go?" Booth grumbled.

They tracked him down eventually, smoking a cigarette behind the building. Brennan's nose crinkled at the assault of the smoke on her lungs and edged backwards. She tolerated Booth's enjoyment of the occasional cigar, but cigarettes only reminded her of images of cancerous lungs.

The director was of little help as Booth prodded for knowledge of Violet's disappearance and eventual demise. He also refused to remain still, pacing with his cigarette before extinguishing it and storming backstage, fidgeting with various props and piles of paper. At a suggestion that he may have favoured Violet for leading roles for personal reasons, Francis Laroche became enraged.

"I have ethical boundaries, Agent Booth. To violate the trust placed in me as an educator would be a grave insult to the talents at this school and their parents. Ms. Richter was a true talent and a credit to this program!" he snapped angrily at the agent. "She had excellent innate comedic timing, was quick to learn her lines and blocking directions and also had a lovely singing voice. Audiences loved her, and I'm confident that they would have loved her as Lady M."

"You're auditioning for _Macbeth_?" Booth asked, noticing a script nearby. "You really do have a hard-on for Willy Shakespeare!"

The crowd backstage collectively gasped and glared at Booth, Brennan included. Confused, he stared at the director.

"What, it was a big secret or something?" Booth asked.

"You _never_ refer to it by name, Booth!" Brennan admonished him, incredulous. "It's bad luck to speak its name backstage."

"Your partner is absolutely correct about The Scottish Play," Laroche concurred. "Now I'll have to change productions! Just wonderful! Spit!"

"What?"

"You have to spit over your shoulder, Booth," Brennan elaborated. "You also have to leave immediately and curse."

He stared at her incredulously. After a long moment, during which the actors began to curse and complain, he finally relented. Spitting on the director's shoe, he stormed towards the exit, cursing beneath his breath.

"Does the man know nothing of the theatrical arts?" Laroche asked.

"Booth knows many things, but admittedly, Shakespeare is not an area of his expertise. If you think of anything else, please give us a call," she added before pursuing her partner outside.

"Seriously, Bones? You agreed with their silly superstitions?" Booth immediately asked as she approached the SUV.

"While I don't believe in the notion of a curse upon a play, I do understand the importance of that belief to those involved in the theatre subculture. And while the thought that great harm will befall those who mention a word is ridiculous, right now, we need allies within a group that is characteristically tight-knit. Thus, supporting their beliefs is the wise course of action."

Booth tilted his head at her, breaking into a grin. "Damn, Bones! That was pretty insightful of you."

"Well, you've made it clear to me on numerous occasions that although I believe in science and verifiable facts, it's sometimes wise to _play along_ to get information," she quipped.

"She's on a roll! You know, maybe the movies are sinking in with you," Booth suggested, starting the engine. "Pretty soon you'll be making cracks about Honey Boo Boo like the rest of us."

"Honey who?"

Booth chuckled. "You probably don't want to know."

Inside her purse, her phone began to vibrate. Reaching for it, she nearly answered it without checking the caller ID, freezing as she caught a glimpse of the name. Silencing the call, she tossed her phone back inside her purse and tried to remain calm.

"Who was that?" Booth asked.

"Just a colleague from the Archeology Department. It can wait."

They drove in silence for several miles, the lie eating away at her. She needed to come up with a good reason to ignore her father's calls, because Booth wasn't a stupid man. He likely knew she'd lied and was upset about that. Honesty was important to both of them.

_Maybe there's something wrong with me, after all. Maybe Angela was right about being changed and screaming in the night. _

"Are you worried this is Pelant?"

His question was so sudden she felt her body startle. Why was he bringing him up? Why would he remind her of that possibility? There was nothing she would put past Christopher Pelant.

"i don't believe it's him, although Angela noted that he borrowed an anthology of Shakespeare's work from the library eight months ago." Hesitating, she added, "I don't think any of us can help but wonder if he's involved with violent or symbolic cases, what with him effectively disappearing from all systems. This doesn't seem quite right for the messages he likes to convey."

"I know. I couldn't help but think of him when we recovered her from the water," Booth confessed. "But if you're afraid or worried, you know you can talk to me, right?"

"I do know." _If only the confusion was as simple as fearing Pelant_.

"I'm here for you," Booth continued. "I know we've been having a hard time lately, but I love you. I will do anything to protect you and Christine. If that means we go off the grid forever, so be it."

"But the FBI—"

"Doesn't come close to being as important as our family."

Brennan nodded, meeting his concerned gaze. "I agree that my job, although tremendously satisfying, is less important to me as well. I have also been considering the possibility of needing to avoid the system and given the difficulties I experienced during my time as a fugitive, I made arrangements with Hodgins to be proactive."

"Arrangements? What arrangements?"

Reluctantly, given the twinge of anger in Booth's question, she explained, "I made arrangements with Hodgins to hide two hundred thousand dollars in an off-shore account he arranged. If we ever need to run, we'll be able to access it and take care of Christine comfortably."

"And you didn't think to include me in this decision?"

"Booth, it was Hodgins who suggested it, and we only did it yesterday," Brennan protested. "We got the call about Richter five minutes later and we've been focused on that case since."

Booth's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. "But you didn't ask me about hiding money. I should have had some say in it."

"We literally made a decision in fifteen minutes. I recalled your displeasure with my working as a fry cook and sleeping under bridges, and everything Hodgins said made sense. I arranged a transfer with my accountant to Cantilever, and Hodgins transferred money to the account." With a grimace, she added, "But that's not good enough for you, because you no longer trust me to make any decisions on my own."

"Damn it, Bones! I only mean the big decisions, the ones that affect our family," Booth countered.

"Like the choice to christen our daughter?" she fired back. "Which was never optional, truly. You simply announced it to me. You made a choice for her, affecting her, without me. I meant to tell you immediately about the money. You even said that you wished we'd thought of stashing money away somewhere the other day!"

Silence filled the vehicle, a heavy kind. The kind that made her terrified, because they happened far too often these days. Closing her eyes, she pressed her face against the window beside her, craving the coolness of the glass.

"I'm sorry. I'm being hypersensitive," Booth said quietly. "I should be calmer about this."

"I should have asked first," she mumbled sadly. "It just..."

"It just seemed like the rational thing to do to you, so you did it," Booth said. "And I agree, it was a good idea. Props to Hodgins for thinking of it. But you've got to stop moving full steam ahead on bigger things, Bones. It makes me feel like you don't give a shit what I think or feel about anything. Like I'm too stupid to be useful."

"You're anything but stupid," she insisted, opening her eyes. "I promise that has never crossed my mind. I'm not used to this, Booth. You have Parker, and even though your relationship with Rebecca failed, the two of you have experience in collaborative decisions regarding his life. You've had several relationships. I have a few failures in the distant past, and perhaps two years of my life where I made any sort of joint decisions."

"It's a big change, having to consider others. And you know, you're right: it's new territory to you. Maybe I expect too much."

"Your expectations of relationships aren't the major issue; your assumption that I somehow innately know your expectations or even excel at them is the problem."

His hand reached for hers then, squeezing it lightly, and she knew the worst was over. But the fact that these storms still raged so frequently refused to fade from her mind.

"Will we ever be okay, Booth? Truly okay?"

"Of course we will, Bones. At the core, we're okay. There's just... static."

She shook her head sadly. "Why doesn't it feel like we'll ever be okay?"

Booth mulled this over for a moment. "Because we don't fight. Not like this, and not often. But we're still the centre, Bones. We'll hold."

She wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him, really. She needed the stability, needed him to be the centre of her world. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that they were one big argument from becoming a replay of her relationship with Michael, only worse, because this time, she understood love far better. This time, it would devastate her beyond any compartmentalization. This time, a daughter was involved.

Booth's phone rang and he answered it quickly. "Booth... Yeah... Oh really? That was left out of the original story. Thanks, Sweets."

"What is it?" Brennan asked.

"Looks like Mr. Mackenzie left out a very important detail in his interview," Booth replied. "Violet's parents just told Sweets about her ex-boyfriend."

"Evan definitely didn't mention their romantic history."

"Sounds like good reason for a follow-up at the Hoover to me. Sweets is having him picked up now. Did you want to come?"

"No, I should get back to the lab. Fisher and I had Angela scan some unusual markings on the bones so we could assess possible scenarios. Might tell us more about what happened to her." With a half-smile, she added, "But thank you for offering."

"We're partners. That's what we do."

"Right."

_Of course he invited you_, she admonished herself. _You work together._ But just as readily, another thought emerged. _It's the first time he's overtly asked you along. You invited yourself along on the last case, and irritated him constantly_.

When had she lost the ability to understand Booth? And how the hell did she get it back? More questions without answers. She felt herself verging on panic. She needed to get back to her bones. It was the only thing that made sense anymore in her life.

Inside her purse, her phone began to vibrate. She ignored it.

* * *

_**Tsk, tsk! Didn't Booth pay any attention in school?  
**_

_**Next chapter: a scene I've been giggling about ever since I began outlining this story, just because the visual is so very wrong, it's perfectly right.  
**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN: We open with a POV I didn't plan for, but now that it's written itself, I'm glad the muse led me there. A fun moment suddenly became quietly beautiful at the same time.  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare, including Hamlet.  
**_

* * *

_"Ophelia was a tempest, cyclone_  
_ A goddamned hurricane_  
_ Your common sense_  
_ Your best defense_  
_ Lay wasted and in vain _

_ For Ophelia'd know your every woe_  
_ And every pain you'd ever had_  
_ She'd sympathize_  
_ Dry your eyes_  
_ And help you to forget... _

_ Ophelia's mind went wandering_  
_ You'd wonder where she'd gone_  
_ Through secret doors_  
_ Down corridors_  
_ She'd wander them alone_  
_ All alone..."_

_**Ophelia - Natalie Merchant**_

* * *

Many remarked that Dr. Temperance Brennan appeared cold, aloof or simply lacking in emotion. Around the lecture hall, many a comparison was made between her and the Sheldon Cooper character on _Big Bang Theory_. While he concurred that there was a superficial resemblance, Colin Fisher understood his supervisor far better than most. He'd sought her out repeatedly, ensuring she knew him by sight and, more importantly, by capability. There was no supervisor he would tolerate as a substitution and thankfully, he hadn't had to contemplate such a miserable alternative.

Watching her as she examined the tiny markings to the left ulna on the X-ray, he recognized the strange look in her eyes. Many a time, he'd faced the same expression in the mirror. Something was troubling her, something she couldn't make sense of. In here, beside the carefully cleaned and organized bones of Violet Richter, Dr. Brennan sought comfort.

Fisher had taken plenty of insults in his teens for being weird, for obsessing over death. Most teens didn't study road kill when encountered, nor did they avidly research true crime stories and the lengthy televised testimony of forensics experts during more sensational trials. While some of the interns on staff had stumbled into the crime solving aspect of the field, Fisher had longed to be a part of it. He longed to be a part of _anything_, really. While Wendell still gave him sideways glances at times, Hodgins at least appreciated his geekier side, and Dr. Brennan thanked him for his work at the end of each case. He liked to think of himself as the black sheep of the Jeffersonian, a role he was content to play.

"Angela said that these were caused by a sharp, fine blade," Brennan mused aloud. "What do you suggest as the instrument at work?"

"A straight-razor, perhaps an antique. It's far more precise than a simple disposable insert, but the groove is a little thicker than current designs, from my research," he replied.

"And yet the lines aren't very long... More like nicks, really..."

He'd already reached the conclusion she was reluctantly circling, having the benefit of multiple stays within mental health facilities. In challenging his own darkness, he'd confronted it in others. He was willing to dwell in shadows to better appreciate the light. Brennan, however, was a surprisingly positive person beneath the hyper-rationality.

And here it was: "Self-inflicted, nonlethal wounds."

"Almost as if her captor drove her mad," Fisher added quietly.

Their eyes met across the table and Fisher nodded sadly, echoing her outrage. This was sadism born of beautiful art. It was a dedication to the minute details that echoed the ghost of Christopher Pelant's handiwork far too closely for comfort.

She'd admitted the previous day that _Hamlet_ was her favourite work of The Bard; more telling, the _way_ she stated this fact told Fisher that she, like him, sought comfort in its tale of madness and revenge. Someone had desecrated a safe space for both of them, and Fisher was furious. Any idiot could tell that Brennan was desperately in search of safety right now, and struggling to find it.

Fisher knew what he had to do, for both their sakes. Setting down the left tibia, he spoke.

"_What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter_?"

His mentor stared at him for a moment, her expression blank. He waited patiently for her to understand his intentions. With a faint smile, she answered him at last.

"_The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants_."

Fisher tilted his head, as if he was pondering her response. "_I like thy wit well, in good faith: the gallows does well; but how does it well? it does well to those that do in: now thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church: argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To't again, come_."

She leaned against the table now, smirking. It was a challenge; he'd thrown down the proverbial gauntlet. It was one she refused to concede.

"_'Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?'_"

Fisher leaned forward, grinning. "_Ay, tell me that, and unyoke_."

It was poetry, watching her feign spinning away, only to turn back with a triumphant grin. "_Marry, now I can tell_."

"_To't_," he goaded her playfully.

A pout crossed her lips. "_Mass, I cannot tell_."

The two of them began to giggle quietly, both aware of how utterly inappropriate their actions were, yet appropriate all the same. This scene had served a purpose for the original text that was being reconstructed in the Jeffersonian now: comic relief, to properly contrast the tragedy of recent events.

"_Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating_," Fisher quoted with a flourish. "_And, when you are asked this question next, say 'a grave-maker: 'the houses that he makes last till doomsday_."

In unison, they finished the quote: "_Go, get thee to Yaughan: fetch me a stoup of liquor_."

The two of them burst into loud laughter as Booth rounded the corner into view. Fisher immediately sensed that he was not in on the joke and likely thought they both needed a lovely white coat with backwards buckles. Clearing his throat loudly, he jerked his head towards the door.

"Do I even want to know what the hell you two are yapping about?" Booth asked.

"_Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness_," Fisher deadpanned.

"Fisher and I were reciting the opening scene of Act V of _Hamlet_," Brennan explained, stifling a giggle. "_'Tis e'en so: the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense."_

"What is it with you two and Shakespeare?" Booth asked, frowning. "And what does it have to do with Violet Richter?"

"It would seem that Ms. Richter was truly the embodiment of Ophelia in more ways than we initially assessed," Fisher replied.

"The marks I told you about last night?" Brennan gestured to the x-ray. "My best assessment without the instrument with which they were inflicted is that they were caused by a sharp implement. These are nonlethal wounds to her arms. There's evidence of slight healing, so it was definitely antemortem."

"Nonlethal... Ophelia was the crazy girl, right?"

Brennan nodded. "She went mad after Hamlet killed her father and rejected her love. I think I understand why she was held for weeks, Booth. The killer not only wanted her to look like Ophelia; he wanted her to _be_ Ophelia."

Booth shuddered. "We need to nail this guy, and fast."

"Oh, did you find anything out from Mr. Mackenzie?"

"Aside from the fact that Violet wouldn't go down on him often enough? A solid alibi from his current girlfriend, Kimberly Demetrios."

"The terrible singer? Isn't that what Angela would call a download?"

"Downgrade, Bones. And yeah, it is, unless you consider that he might just want to stand next to her and appear better by comparison. Either way, it puts us back to square one."

She shook her head. "Not quite. Whoever did this had some access to a place where no one would find Violet, let alone hear her. No college residence has that sort of privacy."

"I'll get Charlie to do a little digging for me," Booth said.

This time, Brennan looked at Fisher and winked. The intern snickered. With an exasperated sigh, Booth left the room in a hurry.

_Mission accomplished_, he thought as Brennan followed her partner out of the room. For a few minutes, he'd taken her mind off of the turmoil in her mind. He only wished he could be so bold as to challenge what he saw as the crux of her problems: she was too concerned with roles and their defined borders in her mind, too concerned with being what others wanted her to be – and conversely, proving she wasn't what they feared or disliked. It was a fallacy he'd found himself locked inside for years: the more his mother insisted he was disturbed and depressed, the worse he felt for not being a "normal son". In recent months, Fisher had realized that normal was bullshit, that he was simply himself. Granted, he was eccentric and struggled to keep a long-term girlfriend most of the time, but he was also intelligent, sarcastic and ultimately content to be himself, mother be damned.

"You're not the bad guy," he mumbled after her. "You're simply Dr. Brennan."

In time, she'd find that truth within again. It was written in her bones.

* * *

"Hey Angie, I was thinking that tonight we could get a sitter and... Wow."

Hodgins ground to a halt just inside of her office, taking in the easel, canvas and an array of paints on a table. Angela's hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, her hand flying over the canvas in a burst of pale blue.

"I needed to paint," she said quietly, dipping her brush in a jar of water.

"I can see that."

"This is who I am!" she snapped suddenly. "I'm an artist. I create."

"I never said you weren't..."

Hodgins edged closer, well aware of his wife's tendency to swing her arms in a flurry of gesture when truly upset. He suspected earing an accidental shiner would only contribute to a very bad mood. Cam had mentioned that this case seemed to be bothering Angela, but a frantic need to create was rare. It betrayed a deeper turmoil than a difficult case.

Her hand continued to dart and fly, crafting the image of a scene he knew well: Paris. Specifically, it was the view from their hotel window. _Escape_. He'd sensed she was in need of serious downtime, but Hodgins was now kicking himself for missing a full-blown spiral into sadness.

"Babe, what's really wrong?"

Angela froze, a droplet of white falling to the plastic sheet beneath her. "I don't know..."

"I know the case is part of it," he continued, shifting himself so he was in her field of vision. "But this is about so much more. You only paint Paris when you're really upset."

Angela mulled her words over carefully. "I know that Washington is my home. You and Michael and our friends... But the artist in me, she belongs to Paris, to the islands, to Brazil. It's like... I have a passion. Violet Richter had a passion, before someone robbed her of her life. If I don't use my talents, am I insulting her memory?" A tear slid down her cheek and she brushed it aside. "If I ignore part of me, am I as dead as the people we see day after day?"

"Angie, no!" He pulled her against him, holding her close. "You are so full of life. I'm often amazed at how much energy you have, how much passion. You still create: the computer is your canvas most days, but your work is art. It has meaning and power to change lives. But if you feel that being here is like a prison, we can make a change. We could quit and move. You could quit and make art full-time."

"I don't know what I want. Maybe I'm just worn out," she mumbled into his shoulder.

"After months of twelve-hour days trying to clear Dr. B? No maybes about it. Look, after this case, we're taking a week off. Anything you want to do, we do it. After that, you can decide what's next for you."

She pulled back, locking eyes with him. "But what about the lab?"

"Screw it. You and Michael come first. Wherever we are is home. We could move to Paris tomorrow and I'd be perfectly happy."

"You really would be, wouldn't you?"

Hodgins grinned. "Damn right! King of husbands?"

The fiery kiss she planted on him indicated he was correct and he matched her passion with his own. There were a lot of things he'd gotten wrong in life, but Angela was everything right in his world.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yeah, definitely." Her fingers traced his jawline as she licked her lips. "Of course, a visit to Egyptology might improve things even more."

"Oh really? It just so happens I have a non-existent piece of equipment to return to them in about ten minutes," Hodgins murmured.

"I better help you. I hear it's big. The equipment, I mean," she quipped.

"You know it, babe."

With one last lingering kiss, Angela pulled away. "Let's go before I violate you in my office."

"God, I love you!"

Cam pretended not to notice their flustered expressions as each made an excuse to leave the lab. She also pretended not to notice Angela's hitched skirt and Hodgins' misbuttoned lab coat upon their return, thirty minutes later.

* * *

The first thing she felt was the cold beneath her. Her entire body was awash in goosebumps, her limbs twitching in a fervent effort to generate heat. Her eyes hung heavy, squinting a suddenly Herculean task. Inhaling deeply, she made her second observation: candles. The scent of warm wax was in the air, and through the tiniest cracks, she could faintly discern an orange-yellow glow that could be a flame.

Her skin itched and as she flinched, the rustling of her garments triggered a panicked thought: _these aren't my clothes_. What the hell had happened? _Think... I was in class... I had a date with Evan. Have? What time is it?_ Groaning quietly, her head lolled to her left. _Why am I so tired_?

Her left hand closed around a foreign object, heavy, metallic. It had been left resting in her palm, it seemed. Her fingers stretched out and she winced as something sharp crossed her fingertips. It was enough to open her eyes halfway.

The lifeless body beside her opened them wide as she screamed and struggled to sit up. The clang of metal meeting floor reverberated through the dank room as she shook him frantically, urging him awake.

"Evan... Come on, Evan! COME ON!"

* * *

**_Aww, poor Mr. Mackenzie! Seems he won't be the top student now. Who's figured out the play this scene's from?  
_**

**_Also, Hodgins=superhusband. Must be nice having the cashflow to make magic happen for your love.  
_**


	6. Chapter 6

_**AN: I apologize profusely for the delay! Will you forgive me if I tell you I've been juggling four jobs, including handling publication and promotion duties for my second book? I do hope so!  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare.  
**_

* * *

"_And as the sun turns into stars  
I will follow you to the dark  
And if the world formed from a spark  
There's no sense in chasing facts back to the start_

_Well, time can take you by surprise  
And never compromise  
No one ever told me that I would slowly break"_

**_Sure As The Weather – Amos The Transparent_**

* * *

"Jesus! It's like one of those candle parties Tessa used to go to in here!"

Booth stood at the entrance to the mausoleum, shaking his head in disgust. The scent of vanilla and various flowers that collectively smelled like cheap potpourri permeated the air. While many of the candles had been extinguished by the first responders to avoid jeopardizing the integrity of the remains, some still burned. _Not for long_, he thought, glaring at the culprits.

"Yeah, it's like a Glade factory hurled in here," Hodgins agreed, looking equally unimpressed. "Rose, gardenias, lilacs and a hint of that obnoxious tropical scent of theirs."

"Hey! You told me you liked that scent!" Angela snapped, whirling around at her husband's remarks.

"Busted," Booth teased.

"Why is Angie here?" Hodgins asked quickly in a desperate bid for evasion.

"Because the placement of the body and the survivor is blatantly symbolic and communicative," Brennan replied. "And photographs aren't always entirely sufficient."

"Thanks, Bren. At least _someone_ appreciates my presence," Angela grumbled, flipping open her sketch book. "This is Baz Luhrmann all over the place."

"Baz what?"

"Lurhmann," Cam chimed in. "As in _Moulin Rouge_?" She carefully slid past a pillar full of candles to examine the body. "It's definitely Evan Mackenzie."

"He also directed that _Romeo + Juliet_ with Leonardo Dicaprio," Angela added. "Which is exactly what this looks like to me."

"Any theories on cause of death, Cam?" Booth asked.

"If I were a believer in conjecture, I'd suggest poison," Brennan mused aloud, studying the damp walls. "If the killer is indeed keeping to the Shakespearean mythology, Romeo perished by consuming poison out of grief."

"Oh yeah!" Hodgins exclaimed. "Didn't Juliet wake up and find him dead beside her?"

As Brennan nodded, Booth's eyes widened. "That's how the first responders say Kimberly woke up: right next to Evan, dagger in hand."

"_Is this a dagger I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee_," Hodgins recited, bemused.

"That would be _Macbeth_," Brennan corrected him. "_Romeo and Juliet_ was, I believe, '_O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die_.'"

"Bones, your Shakespeare fetish is scaring me," Booth muttered, pressing his hand over his nose as he approached the body. "Is poison possible, Cam?"

"I won't know without the toxicology screen but considering there's no blood and no sign of physical trauma, it's definitely viable," Cam replied. "It's also viable that this candle stench will kill me next. Can't we drive some fresh air into here somehow?"

"Not just yet..."

Hodgins tilted his head, studying the floor. Cam followed his gaze, catching on to what had attracted his attention. Reaching into her kit for tweezers, she kneeled beside him and picked up what appeared to be a shard of amber glass.

"I wonder what this used to be?" she asked, gesturing for a container.

Hodgins inhaled, wrinkling his nose. "Whatever it was, it used to hold a rancid liquid. I'll want to test the residue when we get back to the lab. Might be our possible poison."

"There's something inside his left naris," Brennan announced, shining a tiny light inside. "I'm not certain I want to attempt retrieval without Cam examining the body further."

"Everything back to the Jeffersonian?" Booth asked.

"You know the routine," Cam replied.

"Alright, then. Let's get everything bagged, tagged and packed up and sent to the Jeffersonian!" Booth shouted to the FBI technicians on site.

Brennan stepped back, observing the scene carefully. The young couple had been placed upon a stone platform, posed unconscious in a position Booth referred to as some variant of a utensil. Candles adorned the walls and set pillars – some of which appeared to not be genuine stone from the original family internment facility.

_It's like a movie set_, she thought. _Or a stage set_.

Their killer was growing more ambitious, selecting two victims this time. While she wanted to believe that they had weeks before his or her next kill, she sensed that, like any good Shakespearean plot, things were about to escalate rapidly. She also suspected that the survivor, Kimberly Demetrios, would never fully recover from her horrifying experience. Being locked away in a windowless room, waking up beside a body... These were not memories easily suppressed even for the most rational of minds.

_Maybe Sweets can help her_. Brennan certainly hoped someone could.

* * *

He sat the tea down gently in front of the shuddering blonde woman, mindful of the speed of his movements. Her exaggerated startle responses and persistent mild shock were making the interview difficult at best, but these were the hours most crucial to successful apprehension.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Kimberly," Sweets said gently. "Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan told me Evan was a very nice guy."

A lie: Booth found him smug and somewhat dense. But this was about establishing allyship.

"Thanks."

It was scarcely more than a whisper, but she was at least talking to him now. Leaning back slowly, he watched as her trembling hand gripped the tea, Kimberly wincing at the heat radiating through the cup.

"Your mom said you two had a date tonight," Sweets prompted, keeping his voice soft and low. "Where were you going?"

A blink. Another. Her other hand wrapped around the tea, craving its warmth. The blanket they'd wrapped her in was helping, but still woefully inadequate.

"Kimberly?"

"I hate action movies," she muttered. "Don't know how he talked me into one."

"I hate them too," Sweets lied. "What movie did you see?"

"Didn't. We... " A sob ripped from her throat. "I don't remember!"

"Shh, it's okay. It's normal not to remember everything," Sweets assured her. "Did you make it inside the theatre?"

"We were early, so I went to get the tickets. Evan wanted to grab dinner. But when I got back to the car, he... I don't remember it. I know I was looking for him... And then... Oh, fuck! His eyes!"

She slumped in her chair, weeping uncontrollably as she rocked herself back and forth. Sweets nodded, knowing from his last attempt that any efforts to comfort her with touch would evoke a flight response. It was time to leave her to the emergency room doctors for further monitoring. Hopefully her blood work could reveal more pieces of the puzzle.

* * *

Cam grimaced as she gently extracted the foreign object from Evan Mackenzie's nostril. She would never admit it to any of her staff, but embedded objects like these made her stomach bottom out. They'd done so ever since the Epps case, when she'd found herself the recipient of a toxic surprise in a skull. Holding her breath, she pulled gently as she turned her face away, reassuring herself. _It's not a solid object. It's not glass. _Rationally, she knew it was likely a scrap of paper; emotionally, she was waiting for contamination alarms to sound.

Fisher held out the tray and she deposited the object carefully into it, immediately stepping back. Perhaps overly cautious, but at least she wasn't sorry. Fisher gently teased the material apart, brow furrowing as he gently flattened what was, indeed, paper.

"What is it?"

"A threat, or perhaps a motive. Likely both," Fisher replied, tilting the tray in her direction.

Now a rectangular scroll of paper, Cam studied the typed text. _More Shakespeare_, she assumed.

"Do you recognize it, Mr. Fisher?"

"_Titus Andronicus_," he replied. "Shakespeare's most violent play in the minds of many. Its entire focus is revenge, as is this quote."

Cam studied the words carefully, bitter about being thrust back into high school English and its dreary readings:

_Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows  
Pass the remainder of our hateful days?  
What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,  
Plot some deuce of further misery,  
To make us wonder'd at in time to come._

"We? Are there two of them?"

"Oh no, it's the so-called 'Royal We'," Fisher explained. "Titus is a man of stature and power. This is his reaction to the rape and mutilation of his daughter."

"Lovely," Cam groaned.

"You know, given how much time elapsed between Violet's death and our recovery of the body, I wonder if we lost a message similar to this," Fisher said. "I'm also disturbed. If this is a hint at what's to come, it could allude to one of many graphic death scenes in the play."

Cam nodded solemnly. "Get this to Hodgins in case there's particulate evidence, and make sure Angela scans it in as well."

Behind him, the sliding doors opened, revealing Booth and Sweets. Neither looked particularly happy, which told Cam that they'd gained very little from interviewing Ms. Demetrios. Booth hated cases with roadblocks and this one was loaded with them.

"The object in his nose was a message," Cam announced.

"The killer left us a message? What does it say?" Sweets asked.

"It's a quote from _Titus Andronicus_," Fisher informed him. "Alludes to vicious revenge forthcoming."

Sweets groaned. "I really don't have time to read a play right now. With Kimberly remembering next to nothing, a profile might be our best asset at this point."

"I know the play well," Fisher said.

Booth nodded. "Right. Fisher, you're going to help Sweets with his profile. Put that creepy drama brain to good use."

Much to everyone's surprise, Fisher grinned. Full-out grinned in happiness.

"I'd be very happy to assist you, Dr. Sweets."

Sweets smiled smugly at Booth. "See? At least someone calls me 'Doctor' around here."

"You can use Dr. Brennan's office. She headed home for the day," Cam suggested to them.

Booth looked confused. "Bones went home?"

Cam nodded. "As she would say, 'No bones, no Bones.' We won't need her expertise tonight. She picked up Christine and called it a day."

Sweets gestured to the intern. "Come on, Mr. Fisher. You can tell me about this message."

As the youthful psychologist and eccentric intern headed upstairs, Booth shook his head in confusion. Lately, it seemed as if Fisher was actually capable of happiness. He'd seen him smile at least three times, which was three times more than he'd ever smiled.

"What's with the Squintern? Did they finally find him the right happy pill?"

Cam nudged his arm. "Seeley, be nice. Did it ever occur to you that even in this group of misfits, Fisher's never felt as if he fit in?"

Booth frowned. "He's just as _squinty_ as the rest of them, Cam."

Cam nodded. "Yes, but he's always been seen as strange, even for us. I think we sometimes forget that behind the clingy mother and the wretched teas, there's a very brilliant mind. Dr. Brennan is incredibly choosy, as you know well."

Booth considered this, suddenly remembering Zack Addy. The kid drove him nuts, but over time, he'd begun to understand why Bones selected him for her intern. She'd seen in Zack a piece of herself. Suddenly, that conversation between her and Fisher in ancient English held a new significance.

"Bones only works with the best," Booth said at last.

"And right now, perhaps for the first time, Colin Fisher feels like the best around here. He knows this Shakespeare babble inside and out. And if that helps Sweets point the way to his killer, it makes him an incredible asset," Cam noted.

_And anyone who can help Bones smile these days is also an asset_, Booth added quietly.

* * *

Christine, it seemed, took after her mother when it came to literature.

Brennan sat on the couch, legs tucked beside her on the couch while a mesmerized Christine sat on the floor, occasionally clapping two stuffed animals together as she read aloud. It had taken some digging in a box within her study closet, but she'd located the well-worn anthology with relative ease. Having flipped open to re-read the scene played out by their killer, Brennan had found herself drawn into flipping through her favourites. Feeling that _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ was acceptable reading for a young child, she'd begun reciting the play for Christine's amusement.

"Now, before we proceed Christine, I'd like to remind you that this is a fictional tale. There are no fairies in the woods, let alone royalty. You've more to fear from poisonous plants and insects, which Hodgins will teach you about when you're a little older."

Christine giggled, swinging her toy elephant into a toy tiger. "Rah! Rah!"

"That's right: tigers roar. Excellent!"

Brennan thumbed ahead a page, quietly looking forward to the antics of the Puck character. Instead, she found herself frozen in shock. Trembling fingers reached for the rectangle of cardstock, the image of the skeletal remains of a nearly intact _Apatosaurus_ faded and marred by creases.

"_It's not fair, Dad! Why can't I come?"_

_"Because it's a work trip, Tempe. I'm not going to have fun without you."_

_"I hardly think it possible to visit the Jeffersonian museum without having an enjoyable day, particularly given the latest archeological findings," a petulant pre-teen rebuked him, stomping her foot angrily._

_Her father sighed, crouching down beside her. "Look, baby: I promise you that we'll take a trip as a family sometime soon, alright? But I can't take you this time. I can try and bring something back for you."_

_"I want photographic evidence of the newest exhibit."_

_Matthew Brennan laughed, tousling her hair slightly. "It's a deal, Tempe."_

Christine's loud "Ma! Ma!" pulled Brennan from her reverie, the postcard falling to her lap. How had this gone overlooked for so long? Even as she asked herself the question, the answer presented itself:

_Once they left, you no longer believed in happy endings_.

During her tenure in the foster system, she'd fallen in love with Shakespeare's tragedies, finding herself allied with Hamlet's pessimism and rage and lamenting foolish belief in family members with King Lear. This book was one of only two she'd been able to snatch up before the social workers whisked her off and it had been a dear friend straight through University.

"Maybe we'll read more another time," she mumbled as she thrust the card back inside and shut the book loudly.

Picking up Christine, Brennan began to pace the house, humming a nameless tune to her daughter. She could feel the walls crumbling inside her mind, feel the memories surfacing against her will. Hormones, love, parenthood – it didn't matter what the reason was. What mattered was that without her ability to compartmentalize, she was defenseless.

_"What did I tell you, Martha? This one's as dumb as the others!"_

_"Money is money," the bitter woman replied. "And without it, we'd be eating scraps."_

_"Are you sassing me, woman?"_

_Temperance pressed her hands over her ears, drawing her knees to her chest. This was home two and despite her beliefs to the contrary, it was worse than the first family she'd been placed with. She'd never known families of cold looks and bitter remarks, of belt lashes and harsh insults. She was private, not unintelligent. It was also futile to explain her thoughts to people that believed 'ain't' was perfectly sound. _

_A banging and a crash. Harold had shoved her again. Her hands fumbled with the large tome, flipping to the page marked by a postcard. Ignore the sounds. Ignore this world where nothing was rational, where she had no parents. Ignore the silence each time she whispered 'Polo'. _

_"'Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona where we lay our scene...'"_

_A cry of pain. Another shattered glass. Temperance read on._

_"'From ancient grudge, break to new mutiny. Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean...'"_

The vibration of her cell phone jarred her from the past and she sat Christine gently down in her playpen. Reaching for her phone, she winced at the display. This wasn't something she cared to deal with now, but it was fast becoming apparent that she had no other choice. How ironic that she should now crave his absence, when that absence had fractured her trust in others forever.

"Tempe? Tempe, don't hang up." His voice made her ill and also small, child-like in spite of her adulthood.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

"To talk to my daughter, of course! You've been refusing my calls for weeks now. I was starting to worry."

"Why? You've never made it a habit to worry before."

"Tempe–"

"Why did you do it, Dad? Why did you leave Russ and I behind?"

She heard her father sigh on the other end. "We've talked about this so many times, Tempe."

"But it's different now," she insisted, glancing over at her daughter's beaming face. "It's different because I've seen now that it is perfectly possible, albeit challenging, to care for a child while a fugitive."

"Sweetheart, listen—"

"No, _you_ listen!" Brennan felt tears welling up and cursed her neurotransmitters for their weakness. "You always said you couldn't have safely taken us with you, but we took Christine with us. You said it was safer to take her. She's turned out none the worse for the experience in terms of her development. So explain to me why two grown children – teenagers far less dependent upon their parents – were such a burden!"

"We did what we thought was best to protect you two, to keep you alive. We knew we'd be pursued by people who had no qualms about harming a child. The FBI never would have harmed Christine, Tempe. Pelant would have. We made the safest choice for you, even if it hurt you deeply. The choice that would preserve the future we wanted for you and your brother."

"The future," she echoed, his words resonating.

"Yes, Tempe! Are things okay with Booth? Do I need to come there and straighten him out?"

"That's hardly your place," she said coldly, eyes drifting to a picture of herself and Booth at Michael's homecoming. "Please stop calling me."

"Tempe, you don't—"

"I mean it. Stop calling me. Stop calling the lab."

She jabbed angrily at the End Call button, tossing the phone down on the couch. His words continued to echo inside her mind, only... _Only it's my voice_. She'd desperately wanted Booth to come with her, just as he'd suggested and quickly dismissed the night before her flight into fugitive life. She'd understood what it was to be left behind. And then, she'd realized that Booth would never be able to work in law enforcement again. His passion would be taken from him, all because of _her_. Because of his loyalty and love. Brennan had anticipated that reclaiming her job would be fairly simply upon clearing her name, but Booth... His future would change, all because of a selfish desire to not be alone, a desire to not hurt him.

_I am my father's daughter_.

Burying her face in her hands, Brennan wept uncontrollably for the child she'd once been and the woman Pelant had forced her to destroy.

* * *

**_Anyone familiar with Titus Adronicus? Creepy play, lemme tell ya!_**

**_Brennan needs a hug, methinks, especially in light of a subtle hint at why she ended up at the Jeffersonian... Will Max let sleeping dogs lie, so to speak? Stay tuned!  
_**


	7. Chapter 7

_**AN: I know... I know. 80 hour weeks do not provide writing time. But now I have much more free time, meaning I can get back to the Bard and B&B! Hooray!  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare.  
**_

* * *

"_She wants the silence but fears the solitude  
She wants to be alone and together with you  
So she ran to the lighthouse, hoped that it would help her see  
She saw that the lighthouse had been washed out to sea_

_Cause she's just like the weather, can't hold her together_  
_Born from dark water, daughter of the rain and snow_  
_Cause it's burning through the bloodline_  
_It's cutting down the family tree_  
_Growing in the landscape, darling, in between you and me..."_

_**Landscape – Florence + The Machine**_

* * *

At 10:37 pm, stumbling wearily up the walkway to the front door of their house, Booth wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep without dreams. The deep slumber of utter exhaustion.

At 10:39 pm, staring at the ashen face of the woman he loved, he found himself wide awake and couldn't have slept if he downed a bottle of scotch.

"Bones? What's wrong?" he asked frantically, scanning the room. "Is Christine alright?"

"She's fine. She went to sleep half an hour ago. I tried to encourage her to wait up for you. I know how much you like to be there when she goes down for the night."

Her words were distracted, her mind clearly torn between the mundane realities she spoke of and something deeper that he'd noticed plaguing her for days. Her sleep was fitful, the sheets tangled wildly around her limbs each morning. Knowing that she often took a great deal of time to process anything emotional, he'd decided to listen to Angela for once and not push her. But looking at her now, Booth knew he had to do something for her. She wasn't handling _whatever this was_ at all.

"It's okay. The paperwork from Mackenzie took longer than I thought." Sitting down beside her on the couch, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gently pulled her to him. Her body fell limply against his, as if oblivious to his touch. "Cam said you left early."

"Mmhmm. She indicated that the bones wouldn't be possible to process for several hours and it seemed better to take advantage of the time with Christine."

Evasion: a Bones specialty. "Bones, what's wrong?" As she began to reply, he cut her off, "Don't say nothing. I've known you for far too long. I've tried leaving you alone to deal with it, because I know you like to sit with things and analyze every angle, but you're not handling it. You look sick."

He heard her sigh as she nestled her head closer. "Booth, I'll be fine."

"Bones—"

"You can't help, okay?" she snapped, immediately shaking her head. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't be curt with you. Just... I need to reassess some things. Reconstruct my schemata."

"Why can't I help?"

"It's complex and being that emotional matters are more your expertise, I find myself lacking the requisite ability to wield words that would accurately illuminate the matter." Her hand squeezed his thigh gently as she added, "It's nothing you've done. It's just something I'm working through."

Booth frowned. His chest ached, seeing her this upset. It was almost as bad as the night Vincent died. His hand reached across and tilted her chin towards him, confirming what her shaky voice told him: she was fighting the urge to cry.

"Let me help," he pleaded.

"Let's go to bed." At his hesitation, she emphatically added, "I _need_ you to take me to bed, Booth. _Please_."

It felt like more of their old solutions to avoiding their issues, but it was still a solution and Booth was a man of action. His back be damned, he scooped her up into his arms, cradling her up the stairs and into their room, where frantic kisses darted between clothes pulled and tossed and kicked down legs. He felt her mouth latch onto a particular spot on his neck and suck hard, eliciting a loud moan from him.

"Fuck, Bones!" he growled.

"No," she murmured. "Make love."

He loved her, beyond any measure, but moments like these somehow made that love grow even stronger. Gently lowering her to the bed, Booth's hands and lips traced over each curve, every scar, worshipping her body. Her back arched as his breath ghosted between her thighs before he positioned himself above her.

"I love you so much," he whispered.

"I love you more than I thought I'd ever love anyone," she confessed.

_This is helping_, he thought. _Love helps her_. Their bodies joined with a shared cry of pleasure and a promise of partnership affirmed.

* * *

It was shortly past three in the morning when Brennan finally accepted that sleep would never come for her. Gently slipping herself out from beneath Booth's lazily-flung arm, she slipped into her robe and tiptoed quietly downstairs. She filled the electric kettle and plugged it in in a desperate belief that perhaps herbal tea would lull her into slumber, then retrieved her Shakespeare anthology from beneath her case files.

_Titus Andronicus_, she thought, flipping through the index. One of the plays she could barely stand, which meant she was unfamiliar with its plot. Given Fisher's observations, relayed by email earlier in the evening, Brennan expected that the next death scene would take the form of a grisly tableau in the quoted play. But which one? And who would be the killer's target?

The kettle began to faintly whistle and she rushed to flip the switch off. Booth needed his rest; there was no sense in both of them being exhausted. She absently scanned the list of characters as she steeped the chamomile leaves, struggling to recall details of the play. _This one is heavy on revenge_, she recalled. _Violent revenge. Cannibalism, even, I do believe_. That last observation sent a shiver down her spine as she reflexively recalled Gormogon. Hopefully this killer didn't venture there. Her compartments seemed too full to divide away any further emotional pain.

She curled up on the couch, skimming the text and jotting notes on her yellow legal pad – key quotes; brief descriptions of the crimes committed; anything that might assist the team. It was an arduous task made all the more difficult as her argument with Max pushed to the surface.

_He's not wrong. You know it would have been different to take teenagers on the run._

"He could have left us with a guardian," she muttered to herself.

_They fled in a hurry._

"They could have told Russ what was happening. Made him understand he had to stay with me."

_You forgave them this before. Why is it a raw wound now?_

"This is absurd!" she hissed. "Why am I arguing with myself?"

Perhaps something was wrong with her in a neurological sense. A tumour, perhaps? The thought shook her to her core: losing her mind – her intelligence – was one of her greatest fears. In her memory, she could see Booth's confused face, asking who she was. How her heart had been crushed in that moment! The realization that he believed the story – and that she was both elated and terrified at such belief – had left her collapsed on the restroom floor, sobbing. The fear of losing him had dictated her actions for so long and her story had nearly unraveled her careful web.

_But it brought you to Booth in the end_, she thought. She was wrong then: wrong about what she deserved, wrong about the darkness she felt she carried within. But none of this was pertinent now.

She had to break it down rationally. She had to logically determine where her sudden anger at her father came from. Loosely, she could attribute it to his leading her into a situation where she had become him, and Booth had consequently become her. But Booth had forgiven her, just as she had chosen to forgive her father. There was no animosity over the decision itself. There was a layer to peel back, a metaphorical parting of dermis. But where to make the imaginary first cut?

Had she truly forgiven her father? Or had she merely chosen to accept the mistake and move forward?

An insightful question. Within the weariness of exhaustion, her mind seemed to be focusing on her emotional truths. She still held anger at her father, as evidenced in their recent conversations. Booth had never forgiven his father for his abuse, and yet he was able to assimilate the few positive memories they'd shared and enjoy them. Booth was also the one to encourage her to build a fresh relationship with Max.

_I compartmentalized my anger_, she understood. _But the walls are falling down_. What was the cause? _Being on the run and fearing for the lives of myself and my family. Being placed in a situation where I did the one thing I deemed unforgivable. The pain of separation from Booth. _It was a lot for any person to bear. And yet, there was something she couldn't quite define, some other layer to this confusion.

And suddenly, she was in another time.

_The suitcase was open, clothes thrown in haphazardly as she pawed through every drawer. Survival mode had engaged the moment she stepped inside her front door. On the bedside table lay her passport, her mother's jewelery, and a box of tissues. A waste bin had been dragged in from the bathroom and it was filling quickly._

_The tears would not stop falling and she hated herself for them. She had only herself to blame for them, after all._

_Another shirt hit the pile as she reached for a tissue. This was taking too long. She was a wealthy woman. She should simply go and purchase things on the other end of her flight. Why delay? Every minute she remained here, she was acutely aware of who _wasn't _here – who would never be here._

_After all, Hannah wasn't a consolation prize. Booth loved her. Her. _

_Her carry-on bag slung over her shoulder, Brennan stormed into the bathroom, tossing in her travel kit of toiletries in the appropriately small bottles. She could send for the rest, or Angela could have her things, for all she cared. Donate them to women in need. _

_What good were these things? They weren't Booth._

_Signs. His words echoed in her skull: _Do you believe in fate? _ She didn't. She hadn't. But for five foolish minutes, she'd believed in signs and promptly embarrassed herself. She'd hesitated, she'd lost him, and now she'd made things so goddamn awkward that he'd probably fire her all over again in the morning. The irony was not lost on her._

"_I need a drink," she announced to her lonely apartment._

_Their wine. Of course that was the only thing to drink. Laughing bitterly, Temperance poured a glass, downed it without tasting it, then refilled. _

"_To my complete ineptitude in matters of social interaction," she grumbled. "To ruining the partnership that matters most to me. To regrets."_

_She had so many. This one was the biggest one._

_A knock at the door startled her, wine sloshing and trickling over the rim onto her hand. Confused, she stumbled to the door, hesitant. Had Booth come? Was he here to pity her stupidity? A second knock and a third sounded, before her visitor called through the door._

"_Bren, I know you're here, so open the door."_

"_Ange?" Fumbling with the locks, she let her friend in. "What-"_

"_Booth called me," Angela explained, shutting the door behind herself._

_The words were ice water pouring over her head. _Do you want me to call someone_? She'd said no, but he'd gone right on ahead and done what he wanted. Her empty fist curled in anger and fell open again just as quickly. He knew her. He'd taken care of her. Again._

"_Ange," she sobbed. "You were right. All along, you were right."_

"_Sweetie, what did he do?" Angela asked, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "He just said you needed someone tonight, but it couldn't be him."_

"_I did it. I blew it." Another half glass of wine thrown down, as if it could drown the voice in her head that told her Booth didn't love her anymore. _

"_Shh... Sit down – Bren, why is there luggage in the hall?"_

_Brennan winced, averting her gaze. "Ange – "_

"_You are _not _running away from him again, are you?" Angela asked. "You can't keep doing this! It doesn't solve anything."_

"_I know."_

"_Separation is what let Hannah weasel her way in between you two -"_

"_Angela, I know!" Brennan shouted. "I know damn well what I've lost!"_

_Angela leaned back into the couch, exhaling loudly. "Crap. You told him, didn't you? You finally told him."_

_Brennan feigned ignorance. "Told him what?"_

"_What we've all known for years, sweetie: you love the man. That you're perfect together." At Brennan's decision to drain her second glass of wine, Angela sighed. "He's too noble to leave Hannah. That's why it couldn't be him."_

"_I need perspective, for all the good it does me," Brennan mumbled. "One of my college friends is working on a dig in Indonesia. I can clear my mind there."_

_Angela shook her head. "No, you need friends. You need me. More importantly, you need to stick around here."_

"_Why?"_

_Angela narrowed her eyes. "Bren, that man sat parked outside of your building until I got here. He's delusional if he thinks he loves Hannah anywhere near as much as he loves you. You need to be here for when that sham falls apart."_

"_He... No, that's foolish. Why would he do that?"_

"_Because he knew you'd run, and knew I'd stop you," Angela concluded. _

And she had stayed, against every instinct. Because running _had_ cost her Booth. She had left him, had not communicated with him for months, and he'd come back with a girlfriend.

_Communication_. The layers were separating and now she could see one of the true causes for her distress. Even when Booth had left her – when he had rejected her that rainy night and told her he couldn't be there for her – he hadn't truly left her. He'd watched over her until Angela came to take his place. He'd remained her partner at work in spite of the surely awkward nature of their relationship after her revelation.

But she'd left him. No letter. No note. No explanation intended, although her father had remained to clue him in after the fact. Just like her parents had left her.

The book abandoned, she drew her knees to her chest and closed her eyes. _I left him. Again. _It was a loaded statement that haunted her until her body shut down and sleep brought her reprieve.

* * *

"Bones? Bones, what are you doing down here?"

Her eyes squinted open as she hissed at the assault of sunlight. "Huh?"

"You weren't in bed when I woke up," Booth said quietly.

"Couldn't sleep," she murmured. "Tried to read that play Fisher identified."

_Tried and instead remembered why you're the better person in this partnership._

"Why didn't you wake me?" he asked, perching on the arm of the couch.

"That would be irrational," she replied. "No sense in both of us being exhausted."

"It's not about rational. It's about supporting each other," Booth replied firmly, beckoning her closer.

She rested her head on his thigh, sighing as he ran his fingers through her hair. She knew that he was, on some level, correct. The fact that her troubles concerned him made her resist. She had to have her thoughts in order. She had to understand herself before explaining this mess of emotion.

"Maybe you should talk to Angela," Booth suggested quietly. "If you can't talk to me..."

Brennan winced. Echoes of two years past were lodged in her mind. Just one more reminder of the disorganized thoughts plaguing her. He wasn't wrong, though.

"I have to shower," she said quickly, rushing to her feet.

"Bones..."

"I'm sorry," she murmured before rushing upstairs.

_Was being sorry enough_?

Brennan spent the morning pondering this question and found no answers, only more questions. What were the limits to forgiveness? Could someone initially forgive only to be unable to forget and move forward? Booth himself had expressed the possibility of parents staying together for a child. _But I want more than that. I want our love._

By the time she barged into Angela's office, Brennan found herself unable to maintain even a modicum of control over her feelings. Tears began to fall freely as her stunned friend glanced up from her computer.

"Bren, what's wrong?"

"I don't know! Or I do, maybe. I don't know what I know anymore!" Brennan choked back a sob as she paced the room frantically.

"Slow down, sweetie. Is it Booth? Are you fighting again?"

"Not yet..."

"Not yet? I am so going to kick Studly's ass," Angela grumbled.

"No, he's done nothing wrong," Brennan pleaded. "I'm broken, Ange. My walls... the compartments... they're gone. Nothing will stay where I want it to, and I can't help but spin in metaphorical circles trying to sort it all out." Taking a deep breath, she continued. "I rationally know that my parents made the best choice they believed they could for Russ and I. I know this. I also know what happened to me as a direct result of that abandonment, including my inability to commit to Booth for _years_! And Booth... we're not rational, Ange. Us being together is anything but rational! Not the way we went about it."

"Since when did rationality have anything to do with love?" Angela interjected. "i got married in a jail cell."

"I hate this! I hate that I feel so irrational, but I know I have to _be irrational _to understand Booth's heart-driven personality. I hate that I know rationally, fleeing was the best choice. I hate that I left at all. Was it better to be rational then, or be irrational and have taken him with us?" She felt tears streaming down her face as she glanced over at her friend. "Ange, I never forgave my parents, not fully. Without the compartmentalization, I understand that now. I put it aside. But I _left him_, Angela. He's never left me, not without telling me everything."

"Sweetie-"

"I can't lose him," she interrupted, shaking her head. "But I've become my father, the man I can't forgive, can't even _speak _to right now because all of this emotion has just... come back." Staring her best friend in the eyes, her words were scarcely a whisper. "If I can't forgive them, how can Booth completely forgive me?"

* * *

**_It struck me when Angela brought up her line about "waking up screaming" that she anticipated that this might be the thing that broke that compartmentalization skill for Brennan - that she would have to face emotions she'd tucked away for years. We saw pieces of this at the end of Patriot in the Purgatory (I won't elaborate to avoid spoilering). Motherhood, being with Booth, fleeing... it's changed her. She's very capable of change; she's just terrified of it.  
_**

**_As for our flashback... Brennan's a runner. I feel like something happened to help her adjust. This is one possibility.  
_**

**_I'd love reviews, and I promise to get the next chapter out much more speedily! Also, if you've PM'ed me recently, I am so sorry I haven't replied. I'm wading through everything slowly.  
_**


	8. Chapter 8

_**AN: See? I told you I'd update faster, now that I actually have free time. Oh, free time... you've been missed. I even get to sleep these days! **_

_**Thank you to everyone reviewing and reading. I'm slacker gal about responding much of the time, but I read each and every one and appreciate them so much.  
**_

_**As an FYI, this story is "sometime after The Partners in the Divorce". For the sake of my chronology and in light of the show being back on, consider this as also taking place before Patriot. Now, let's see what Angela can do to help Brennan.  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare. On an interesting note, I saw Metric live last night, so the timing of this chapter and its lead lyrics is pretty cool, considering I planned it months ago. (Great song, check it out)  
**_

* * *

"_I'm just as fucked up as they say  
I can't fake the daytime  
I found an entrance to escape into the dark  
Got false lights for the sun  
It's an artificial nocturne  
It's an outsider's escape for a broken heart..._

_Fate, don't fail me now._"

_**Artificial Nocturne – Metric**_

* * *

Angela found herself momentarily speechless, an affliction with which she was not well acquainted. Her heart was breaking at the sight of her dearest friend in pain; her mind, however, wanted to shake some sense into her. But what to say first? What approach? Typical Brennan was best approached with rational explanations of emotion, as it clarified matters for her, but this was not Typical Brennan. This was emotionally vulnerable Brennan, and she rarely made appearances.

"Sweetie, sit down," she urged her, pulling words together in her head.

Brennan complied, her fist slamming against the arm of the couch in frustration. "Is this what opening yourself up brings? The ability to feel your heart compressed in your chest? The inability to function?"

"Kind of, yeah," Angela replied. "But good things come of it, too. Christine's an obvious example."

Brennan nodded furiously. "Yes, she's wonderful. Her sense of humor is developing rapidly and it definitely favors Booth, which is advantageous, given his better grasp of pop culture and puns."

Angela smiled. "But she's smart like Mom, too. Best of both worlds. Brain and heart together."

"I suppose so..."

Angela continued. "Sweetie, I know this hurts right now, but this is a good thing. You're integrating your feelings into your life more completely. Sure, some of the feelings are terrible, but they make life beautiful. Love is beautiful."

"But love isn't enough!" Brennan protested. "Love can't undo betrayals of the past. My father –"

"Your father and mother were a different story, Bren," Angela interrupted, wisdom kicking back into gear. "They were fugitives. Criminals. They were good parents, too, but the reason they had to run was because of their choices in life. They chose crime. You and Russ were like collateral damage."

"That's a very Booth term," Brennan mused, reaching for a tissue.

"Hey, I listen to the G-Man once in a while! Enough about vocabulary. Focus: are you a criminal?"

Brennan's brow furrowed. "Well, technically I was a fugitive during my absence this summer."

"But you weren't fleeing because you'd done something wrong, were you? You were fleeing to protect yourself."

"My parents were protecting themselves, Ange."

Angela groaned. "Protecting themselves from the consequences of their choices! You didn't choose to be framed for murder. You were a victim of Pelant – the mouse to his obnoxious, creepy cat."

"I know what that means," Brennan murmured. "What you're saying is that the parallels between myself and my parents are superficial, to some extent?"

"Exactly!"

Angela heaved a sigh of relief. She was getting through to her, slowly but surely. Now, she had to somehow convince her Booth wasn't about to cut and run...

"I don't know if I'll ever forgive him, Ange," Brennan confessed. "My father. I keep thinking how unfair it was to leave us behind, no explanations, no security... I didn't leave Christine."

"Babies are a whole other deal. First, Christine was still breastfeeding. Changing her diet would have been difficult. Second, babies generally are content with little more than a toy, clean clothes and diapers, food and hugs. Teenagers, however, hate everything. I know I did." Angela smirked, recalling the time she'd run off with her father's roadie – only to have him wake them at gunpoint.

"At least we would have had each other," Brennan countered.

Angela nodded. "In their defense – and believe me, I am very much advocating for the devil here – they thought you and Russ would have each other."

"But he left me."

"Like you're afraid Booth will."

Brennan huffed. "This isn't some emotional baggage thing that Sweets would want to talk psychology about for hours. I hurt Booth."

"Yes, you did." At her friend's surprised look, she groaned. "What, you want me to lie? You know how Booth is about his family. But Booth also knows that you were hurt too. Pelant tore your life apart. He tore all of us apart."

"But -"

"You are _not _your father, I promise. Besides, even if you were, what did Booth have to say about him, back when he first returned?"

"He told me to move forward. To reconcile."

Triumphantly, Angela continued, "So if Booth believes you should forgive your dad and you are less culpable for having to leave, why wouldn't Booth forgive you and mean it?"

Brennan buried her head in her hands. "My head hurts. Perhaps I do have a tumor."

Angela felt her heart skip a beat. "Wait, what?"

"I was talking to myself last night. Arguing, to be more specific. Booth was talking to a cartoon when he had his tumor."

"But you have no actual, scientific reasons to think that?" Angela clarified.

"No, only speculation, which is unwelcome in a lab."

_Phew!_ Sometimes, she wanted to strangle her friend. Sensing that the worst had passed, she embraced Brennan tightly.

"Talk to Booth, sweetie. Hear it from the horse's mouth."

"Why would a horse's neigh be relevant?"

Angela chuckled unwittingly. "Metaphor. Let him tell you how he feels, instead of just guessing and worrying."

"Oh... I know I should, but I don't want to upset him. Things are just settling down. I don't want to rock the cradle."

"Boat. Rock the boat. And Booth would be far more upset about you being hurt over something he could help with," Angela rebuked.

Wordlessly, Brennan rose to her feet, wiping tears from her face. "I need to get back to work. Thank you, Angela."

"Bren, talk to him!"

"Sure. Yes."

Angela watched her leave, exasperated. _She's so not going to tell him. Not yet, anyway_. Returning to her photos from the Mackenzie crime scene, she immersed herself in her work. Booth wasn't a stupid guy; he'd pry it out of Bren eventually.

"That man couldn't leave you if he tried," she murmured.

* * *

"How's Dr. Brennan?"

Booth's grip on his coffee tightened. "Sweets..."

"Hey, I'm her friend, not just a psychologist," Sweets explained quickly. "She seemed strangely absent at the Mackenzie scene."

Booth nodded. "She's working through something. I just wish she'd let me in. We tell each other everything."

"Has she said anything at all?" Sweets poured cream into his coffee in a quick splash that just missed his lapel.

"Just that it's nothing I've done, which is a relief. You remember how she was when she was pregnant," Booth replied. "I found her on the couch this morning. Pretty sure she barely slept."

"You know, that might pay off. Exhaustion lowering her defenses –"

"Enough, Sweets! Run me through the profile before I have Hacker give you a time out."

Sweets flipped open the folder he was juggling, offering the report to Booth. "Like I said before, the killer's a perfectionist. The scenes are so accurate as to be ritualistic. The act of staging his scene is a great deal of why he does what he does. I anticipate that he works in theatre, but feels his work goes unrecognized or improperly acknowledged. This individual obviously felt slighted by Violet Richter and in fact, she might be the trigger that set this off."

"How's that?"

"Evan Mackenzie is her ex-boyfriend. Kimberly Demetrios is his new girlfriend and Violet's main competition. A little too coincidental to me. And then, there's the blatant revenge motivation, evident in the quote recovered from Mackenzie's body."

"Fisher clarify that?" Booth asked, leading the way into the lab.

"Very much so. Get this: _Titus Andronicus_ is basically a bloodbath. Rape, mutilation, murder, bodies ground into pies -"

"Ugh! I got it, Sweets!" Booth grumbled.

"But the important thing, Agent Booth, is that the entire play centres on a feud. _Romeo and Juliet_ also centres indirectly on a feud. _Hamlet_ features family strife and revenge as well."

"So our guy's seriously pissed at someone and his little scenes are revenge?" Booth asked.

Sweets nodded. "Find the feud; find the killer. And we have to act fast. Give the escalation of violence in the quoted play and the staged feel of these killings, our suspect is working towards a finale in his mind. Shakespeare is known for escalating body counts in his productions."

Booth chugged his coffee, contemplating Sweets' information. "Wait: what about the director?"

"Hmm. The staging would make sense. Do we know if he's ever failed at a major role in his career? Is he being fired soon?"

"I don't know, but I'd say it's worth a look," Booth replied, his eyes wandering. "Bring him in, Sweets, Call me when he's en route to the Hoover."

Sweets, following his colleague's gaze, nodded. "Right away."

Booth swiped his card quickly, following Bones and Fisher onto the platform. "Bones! Any preliminary findings?"

She shook her head. "We've just begun. Mr. Fisher was noting that there are no signs of serious head trauma to the victim."

"Did Cam rule out poison yet?"

"Not yet, although she did say toxicology would come back this morning," she answered, peering at the right hand. "Defensive wounds."

Fisher nodded. "Microfractures to the ulna as well. He raised his arm as the assailant came at him."

"So, uh, Bones? I gotta borrow your Squintern."

Brennan spun around, puzzled. "Why? Are there remains to examine elsewhere?"

"No –"

"Because as astute as Mr. Fisher is, he's hardly ready to be lead on a case," she continued, earning a wince from Fisher.

"Bones, this isn't about... well, _bones_. We're calling in the director for interrogation."

"Booth, Mr. Fisher knows nothing about interrogation –"

"Um, hi. Right here. Converting oxygen to carbon dioxide," Fisher interjected.

"While you are indeed converting approximately 4-5% of the air you inhale into carbon dioxide, you are also exhaling water vapor in addition to all of the gases we cannot utilize in the air," Brennan corrected him.

"Too literal," Booth told her.

"Regardless, I'm your partner. Why aren't you taking me along?"

Booth bit back his frustration and explained, in the calmest voice he could muster, "Look: I need you here with the remains, getting me answers. Fisher is not as good as you are. He knows Shakespeare though, so I'd like him on hand in case the director spits out any choice quotes."

"Although my knowledge of Shakespeare is on par with Mr. Fisher's, I must concur with your assertion that my anthropology skills outrank his."

"Of course," Fisher deadpanned, smacking his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"Why didn't you just say so from the start, Booth?"

Booth forced a smile to mask his exasperation. "I don't know."

"I'll be back. Must use the little boy's room before the big _vroom, vroom_ car ride!" Fisher snarked, stomping off the platform.

Booth winced, feeling a headache coming on. It was definitely going to be one of _those_ days. Bones, however, had resumed her examination of Evan Mackenzie's body.

"You're not pregnant, are you?"

His partner glared at him. "Why would you suggest that?"

Booth kicked himself internally. "You're, uh, glowing. Radiant and beautiful."

"Hmm. Well, given that my menstrual cycle is on schedule, I'm confident that my injection is still preventing pregnancy. But thank you."

_Nice save, Booth. Now change topics_. "Hey Bones, what's the deal with Shakespeare? Is there a secret fan club of anthropologists for the guy?"

She raised her eyes, their icy blues clouded grey. "No, although many of us can quote his work. I find the iambic pentameter soothing in its repetition."

"Iambic pent-what?"

"The work of Shakespeare falls into a patterned rhythm of lines. _Da-DUM, Da-DUM, Da-DUM, Da-DUM, Da-DUM_. Five measured 'feet' of prose. Every second syllable is meant to be stressed." She held up the skull, studying it carefully. "From an anthropological standpoint, Shakespeare's work reveals a great deal about the beliefs and customs of times past, and serves as a fascinating contrast to other cultures. A sociocultural anthropologist, Laura Bohannan, recounts a fascinating experience where she told the story of _Hamlet_ to a West African tribe, and their reactions to the content are incredible."

Booth nodded thoughtfully. "I can see the appeal from that perspective. Now, why do _you_ like Shakespeare so much?"

She hesitated. "Booth, I need to work."

"I found you beside an old anthology this morning."

"Another time, I promise." It was a plea.

"Okay," he relented, kissing her cheek. "See you later."

"I'll call when I find anything," she assured him.

_All business once more_, he noted. His phone vibrated and he checked the display, reading the text from Sweets. The director was on his way, which meant it was time to drag Fisher's neurotic ass out the door. Fortunately, the intern was already waiting just beyond the sliding doors.

"I take it you're expecting a theatre throwdown?" he asked.

Booth nodded. "The guy knows we're unfamiliar with his turf. We need an interpreter."

"Happy to be of service. I suggest you lead with: _'__This above all: to thine own self be true/And it must follow, as the night the day,/Thou canst not then be false to any man._'"

"Yeah, that's why I'm bringing you along." His phone rang again and Booth glanced at the display. "Fisher, go on ahead to the SUV."

Fisher shrugged, strolling off as Booth hit the Answer key. This was not a call he wanted to deal with, but he sensed it wouldn't wait.

"Booth."

"_What have you done to Tempe_?"

"Max, I've done nothing to your daughter. Apparently you have."

"_What's that supposed to mean_?"

Booth sighed. "Look, I'm not getting in the middle of this. All I know is Bones has refused calls from you for days now and won't tell me why. That said, my allegiance is to my family, Max."

"_Well, so's mine. She won't talk to me. Can't you _–"

"Max, let me give you some advice, given your prolonged absence from her life. Bones needs time – a lot of time – to process anything that upsets her. If you've pissed her off, the best thing you can do is give her that space. Pushing her never ends up well." _Take it from the guy who almost lost her forever by pushing a relationship at her._

Max cursed beneath his breath. "_Can't you try and at least find out why she's so angry_?"

"Not happening. Leave her alone, Max, or you'll be dealing with me."

Ending the call, Booth pocketed his phone with a glimmer of hope in sight. He was right: this _was_ connected to Max somehow. The specifics would come in time, but for now, he at least knew it wasn't something he'd done to drive her away.

_Focus on the case_. _Give her time_. It was what he would do. And when she needed him, he would be there, just like always.

_We're the centre. We'll hold_. There was no other option.

* * *

**_Angela: the voice of reason. And it looks like Booth knows more than Brennan thinks, but he's always understood her better than most, hasn't he? It's why we love him. I also love Fisher, and between the platform scene and the next chapter, I'm having so much fun writing him.  
_**

**_Let me know what you think. I'm going to take a run today at PM and review reply catch-up, so if you've got a burning question about the story, now's your chance! The next chapter is almost done already, so I'll be posting it Tuesday or Wednesday? Reviews encourage me to linger here... which encourages faster updates. *innocent look*  
_**


	9. Chapter 9

_**AN: Thank you for all of your reviews! I'm loving the discussions behind the scenes and little nuances people are picking up on. Sometimes, I don't even notice what I've done until someone spots it... Unintentional genius? I'll go with that.  
**_

_**A little short, but the next is coming very soon, promise!  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare. If Hart Hanson would like to hire me, he can PM me I suppose. Speaking of, I've used dialogue from a past episode for context and no infringement is intended. Disclaim, disclaim!  
**_

* * *

Francis Laroche was a worm of a man, at least in Booth's mind. Slimy, slinky, and just plain disgusting. He reeked of sleaze, which was why he immediately thought of him as a suspect. The black turtleneck and tight jeans weren't helping the guy out.

"How do you want to do this?" Sweets asked.

"You go solo; I'll be on the earpiece," Booth replied. "I offended the guy last time we spoke."

"How so?

Booth groaned. "I just pointed out that the script they were practicing was _Macbeth_." At Sweets and Fisher collectively gasping, he shook his head. "Yeah, yeah, don't say it backstage. Shut up."

Fisher had the audacity to click his squinty tongue at him. "I'm surprised he even came here willingly after such a grave error."

"Sweets, go do your shrink thing. Fisher, follow me and nag Sweets about theatre etiquette, instead."

Booth led the intern into the observation room and explained the controls for the microphone that would allow him to advise Sweets. He, on the other hand, would be scowling in the corner and finishing his coffee while hating his job. _Stupid turtleneck_, he thought. _What man wears a turtleneck willingly? Guy looks like a mime_.

Through the glass, Sweets took a seat opposite Laroche, setting a file folder down casually. "Thank you for coming here today, Mr. Laroche. I know your time must be very limited, given the demands of theatre."

"Kiss ass," Booth grumbled.

Fisher replied, "Smart, though – unless he takes it –"

"_It is a pretty mocking of the life_," Laroche said bitterly, rolling his eyes.

"...As an insult," Fisher finished. Hitting the microphone button, he said, "Dr. Sweets, repeat after me: _Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee?_"

As Sweets complied, Fisher watched the director's face intently. "_Hamlet_," he explained briefly.

"Whatever works," Booth concluded with a shrug.

"You know of the Bard?" Laroche asked Sweets.

"I do. What I don't know is the identity of Violet Richter and Evan Mackenzie's killer. I'm hoping that you can give us information that will narrow down our list of suspects," Sweets continued. "How long have you been at Morgan Ashford Academy?"

"Five years."

"So you knew Violet and Evan well?"

The director sighed. "_Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall_."

Fisher nodded, jamming the microphone button. "He wanted to screw Violet. Or Evan. Or Evan screwed or cheated his way into the program."

"Was Violet too virtuous for your liking, Mr. Laroche?" Sweets challenged him.

"_The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose_," was his reply.

"That's a no," Fisher clarified. "Try this: _Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper sprinkle cool patience."_

Booth chugged his coffee. _This is not happening. I'm in English class hell. _

Laroche leaned forward in his chair, studying the youthful psychologist. "What do you really want to know?"

"Mr. Laroche, have you been successful in your career?"

"_I wasted time, and now doth time waste me_."

"He was a lazy moron and it cost him true success, so now he's stuck teaching," Fisher translated with a grin, before supplying Sweets with another quote.

Sweets nodded and recited it. "_A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool_."

"How the hell do you remember this crap, Fisher?" Booth asked.

"You spend six weeks in the loony bin and then tell me what else you have to do besides read or watch PBS," the intern responded dryly.

Fisher's quote had settled the director, but only slightly. While he dropped the Shakespeare stalling, he refused to give more information besides the fact he was content to teach (not happy, Booth noted – just content). Without anything substantial to go on, they'd have to cut him loose for now, which was what he told Sweets to do.

"Thanks, Fisher, for your obsessiveness," Booth said.

The intern shrugged. "I look at it as a rounded knowledge base. An arsenal of skills."

"If you say so." At Sweets' approach, he gestured to the elevator Laroche was stepping inside. "What do you think?"

"Given his encyclopedic knowledge of Shakespeare and attitude? He's definitely a prime suspect." Sweets then glanced at Fisher. "Of course, by that logic, Fisher could be the killer."

"I resent that!" Fisher complained.

"Wouldn't be the first intern to go that route," Booth grumbled.

"One thing that struck me was his lack of concern about his professional failings," Sweets continued. "Our killer feels misunderstood; Laroche implies he was simply not diligent enough to success. That implies a locus of responsibility that's internal."

"So he's not our guy?" Booth asked.

"I'd need more to go by." Sweets tapped the file. "I could dig into his history, see if I find any major failures."

"Do that. I'm taking Fisher back to the Jeffersonian."

"Again, I am standing right here," Fisher grumbled.

"Booth has a pathological need for control at times, stemming from –"

"Sweets, I will not hesitate to shoot you."

"See?"

Glancing between the two men, Fisher shook his head. "You two need the loony bin more than I ever did."

* * *

"King of the lab!" Hodgins announced, strolling into Cam's office.

Cam spun around from her monitor, where she was finishing up her autopsy report. "Are you here with useful information this time, Dr. Hodgins?"

Hodgins, much to Cam's annoyance, had taken a page from the Fisher playbook and begun reciting Shakespearean quotations as frequently as possible. It was giving Cam flashbacks of barely passing grade eleven English and she'd had her fill for a lifetime.

"_Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness..._" At this, Hodgins handed Cam a report with a flourish. "..._And some have greatness thrust upon 'em_."

Cam scanned the report, smiling in spite of herself as she absorbed the contents. "If you knock off the quotations now, Dr. Hodgins, I'll forgive you for the earlier incidents. So the hemlock in the vial is rare?"

"Not so much the hemlock, but the residuals that distilled into the poison extract," Hodgins explained. "There are trace minerals in quantities unseen in most of the state's soil _except_ for one region, which happens to be approximately 50 miles from the campus."

"Meaning our killer likely grew his own, or knew where to locate it," Cam concluded.

Hemlock was, as Hodgins and Brennan explained, one of two possible poisons that could have been the mystery substance in _Romeo and Juliet_ – the other being the deadly variety of nightshade. Being a plant, there was no way to track any sort of purchase records or theft. This information, however, was as good as a receipt from a store for a starting point.

"Get this information to Angela and have her look for landowners within the region. See if anything cross-references with anyone at the school."

"On it!" Hodgins grinned, pausing at her door. "Just one more?"

"Don't push it," Cam warned.

With a mischievous look that made it clear Cam could expect more Bard babble, Hodgins went in search of Angela, leaving Cam with her report. With a sigh, she glanced at her handwritten notes and began typing anew – and then, another knock.

"Dr. Saroyan?"

With an exasperated look, Cam spun around, puzzled by her visitors. "Yes?"

The security officer gestured to the man beside him. "This gentleman has a delivery for the lab, but there's no direct recipient."

Cam's brow furrowed. "Who sent it?"

"No return address on this one," the courier replied.

"The way it's addressed also seems unusual," the security officer chimed in.

Cam rose, studying the envelope the courier passed over. She immediately concurred with security: the words "Richter murder investigation" stuck out and triggered an instinctive recoil reaction.

_A cardboard box, opened on the desk. Understanding came as she peered over the open flaps and a human heart greeted her._

"_A heart," Dr. Brennan blurted out._

"_Definitely human. Adult. DNA can give us sex."_

"_He's killed two people today," Zack exclaimed, panic creeping into his voice._

"_That's if this heart is from the same victim as the bone dust."_

_Immediately, her mind began to race: whose heart was it? Why was it delivered here? How did it get here? As Brennan's hand shot into the box, her own heart began to race wildly._

"_What? What is it?"_

_She didn't know why she was asking. She recognized the material as newsprint, and the cop in her expected the article that unfolded before her. The Sentinel profile on the Jeffersonian, bloodstained and severely censored with a black marker._

_She could hear Brennan talking, but the words didn't register. He'd killed at least one person within hours. He'd found a way to access her lab. What had she done wrong?_

"_How did this even get in here?" Angela demanded, jarring her back into the present. "I thought that there was security!"_

"_So did I. Uh, I-I'll take care of it..."_

_As Angela stormed out, Dr. Brennan caught her attention._

"_He's coming after me through my friends."_

"_What?"_

"_He told me... whatever happened would be my fault."_

"_Then I'll make sure nothing else happens."_

"I'm going to have to ask you to provide fingerprints as a control sample," she advised the courier. "You too, Officer Carlisle." Reaching for the box of gloves on her desk, she craned her neck out of the office. "Dr. Brennan!"

Angela and Hodgins scurried out of their offices as she gingerly took possession of the envelope. Dr. Brennan glanced up from the platform, awaiting further instructions.

"Call Booth. We may have a message from our killer," Cam explained.

Brennan nodded, immediately reaching for her cell phone. Cam returned her attention to the men beside her and directed them to Angela for fingerprinting. As for the envelope, Booth's people could deal with it. That was her new protocol, one she would never stray from again.

_Parker. It was his face in her mind as she abandoned her surface exam and asked Zack for the #2 saw. Whatever she and Booth were – and she honestly wasn't sure how to define them, aside from on-again lovers and long-time friends – she knew one person would always come first: Parker. _

_They needed answers. She had to find them._

Even now, she could barely remember the sound of saw striking orb. All the same, for the rest of her life, the clink of metal on glass elicited a chill down her spine and a bitter taste in the back of her throat.

She sat the envelope aside on a sterile tray, where it menaced her for the next eighteen minutes.

* * *

"_Tempt not a desperate man_," the FBI technician read aloud.

"_Romeo and Juliet_," Brennan said quickly, Fisher nodding his agreement.

"I don't know this Bard crap that well, but even I know that's a threat," Booth added.

Cam felt her body relax, hoping her excessive tension over the envelope had gone unnoticed. It was one thing to admit to herself that she remained wary of enclosed materials; it was another to confess that fear to her team. It wasn't a matter of expecting a poor reaction. Cam simply preferred to keep her weaknesses private.

"The question is, did the killer choose the quote for its loose threat, or is the word 'desperate' a clue to his motivation?" Fisher mused aloud.

"Either way, Dr. Sweets should be briefed. As for the rest of us, I'm afraid we'll have to take extra precautions until we have our killer," Cam announced. "I'll double security and there will be mandatory escorts to vehicles in the parking garage."

"No late hours," Booth chimed in, pointedly staring at his partner.

"Booth, if anything, I'm safer here than at home," Brennan protested. "Besides, I have an urgent project to undertake. Mr. Fisher, I need your assistance."

"Project? What project?" Booth asked.

"The killer is utilizing Shakespearean scenes as models for his killings. Assuming the quote left behind on Evan Mackenzie was indicative of the next play used as source material, we have a list of possible murder scenes. Everyone should be familiar with the circumstances of each so as to avoid them."

"Bones, why are you making me learn Shakespeare?"

Cam stifled the urge to giggle. Booth was _whining_. It was priceless.

"Because I would like our daughter to grow up with a father," Brennan replied, earning a snicker from Angela. "Mr. Fisher, come with me."

"I'll get back to searching for landowners in the region Hodgins pinpointed," Angela said, slipping away with Hodgins in tow.

"And I will finally finish my autopsy report," Cam chimed in, amused at Booth's horrified look. "Come on, Seeley. Shakespeare's not that bad."

"Yes it is, Camille," Booth growled. "I'm going to see if the lab guys can pull DNA from the seal."

"I doubt our killer's that stupid, but maybe we'll get lucky."

A disgruntled Booth charged after his partner and her intern, shouting. "Bones! Bones, are you going to at least put it in real English?"

"Shakespeare's works are written in 'real English'. In fact, with respect to longevity of usage, his work is more 'real' that contemporary English..."

Cam closed her door, laughing. This was going to be a lesson she was sure none of them would ever forget.

* * *

**_I don't know about anyone else, but it's always bothered me that Cam is the only person that doesn't seem bothered by trauma afterwards. Hodgins and Gravedigger? Issues. Brennan+everything the poor woman's dealt with? Issues. Booth? Same. But Cam nearly dies during an autopsy and nada? I challenged myself, as someone who's never cared for her character very much, to get in her head and empathize with her. What do you all think of Cam?  
_**

**_Next chapter: some of that light and wacky goodness of Bones... and angst, too. Hey, we're on a journey. Hills and valleys.  
_**


	10. Chapter 10

_**AN: You're still here? Thank you for reading! Thanks also to everyone for their perspectives on Cam as a character. If anyone's read a good fic that makes her character more relatable, I'd love the recc. I want to like her and I feel the writers are to blame, to a degree, for not fleshing her out enough over time.  
**_

_**That said, I do believe Brennan and Fisher want to explain a little Shakespeare for you. For those unaware of "country matters", it's a line from Hamlet that has two interpretations, both of which involve sex and one of which involves very coarse slang. I'm still surprised that both were explained in our high school text, but the line does make me giggle every time.  
**_

_**Speaking of Fisher, this week's episode killed me. I love him so. I also loved Brennan and her nerd humour. I got the circle joke right away. My mister (my Booth - it's kinda scary how much) shook his head at how bad a joke it was then called me a nerd.  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare (nor do I really care to own Titus Andronicus).  
**_

* * *

"_And it's always little things  
That to the surface brings  
The space you need to breathe  
Before the curtain call  
The light that leads the way  
Before you hit the wall  
The mountain that you climb  
Just to take a fall  
For blind among the blind_

_There's an anchor around my heart_  
_Dragging me down_  
_Beneath the waves in silence I fall_  
_There's a halo above my head_  
_Spinning me 'round_  
_'Cause I don't know if I'm alive or dead_  
_There's a dagger in my hand_  
_Bleeding me dry_

_And all we have to lose is time_  
_And what we lose, we leave behind_  
_Stay around and we will shine_."

_**Halo - Oleander**_

* * *

"Are you sure this is necessary, Bones?"

"Yes, Booth! Fisher and I have constructed a summary of the play, along with an understanding of Shakespeare's patterns of plot construction. It's highly informative."

Brennan shook her head at her partner's grimace. Booth could be incredibly stubborn when he found something frustrating, a trait she hoped Christine would not exhibit. His resistance to Shakespeare went far beyond a lack of comprehension; little moments she'd observed over the past several days had made it clear that he did get the gist of the material. He just didn't _want_ to understand it.

"Dr. Brennan, I think everyone's here," Cam announced, leading in Sweets.

"Excellent." She glanced around at the colleagues seated in Angela's office and nodded to her friend. "Angela has helped us prepare a few visuals for this presentation."

A picture of William Shakespeare was now on screen as she gestured to Fisher. "Most of us are at least superficially aware of William Shakespeare from our studies. Granted, different teachers possess mixed levels of proficiency with his work."

"Ugh, that reminds me of my grade ten teacher," Fisher chimed in. "The man didn't understand the inherent humour in '_country matters_'."

Brennan burst into laughter, as did Hodgins. The rest of their colleagues remained confused, given their lack of amusement. Clearing her throat, she continued.

"Mr. Fisher has brought up an excellent point about Shakespeare's general writing style. He was, first and foremost, a master at wordplay. Frequently, characters match wits through puns and turns of phrase. He's responsible for 1700 words we use in the English language, words that everyone uses."

"To demonstrate," Fisher added, gesturing to Angela for a screen change, "examine this sentence: '_The bloodstained bandit was remorseless about the premeditated assassination and torture of which he was accused.'_ All of the key nouns and adjectives in this sentence came from Shakespeare."

"Which is why we ought to respect him, given our field of expertise," Brennan noted with a smile. "Although the core elements of his plot lines were borrowed from other works or historical events, he had a way of making these stories entertaining for the masses."

"In short: beyond the often flowery language lies a sharp mind for metaphor, irony and satire. Expect these elements in our killer's actions, past and present."

"Even Violet Richter's name – that of a flower – plays into the drowning of Ophelia," Brennan explained. "Kimberly's last name is similar to that of a character in _Titus Andronicus_."

"So we should be looking at names similar to characters in Shakespeare's plays?" Booth asked.

"That could prove a viable means of predicting future victims," Brennan replied. "Now, we need to examine the quote we were given."

On screen, the text of it appeared:

_Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows  
Pass the remainder of our hateful days?  
What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,  
Plot some deuce of further misery,  
To make us wonder'd at in time to come._

Fisher read the quote aloud, then explained it. "This quote is from an exchange between Titus and his daughter, who has been raped violently and had her arms cut off and her tongue cut out to prevent her speaking of her attackers."

"Charming," Cam spat out.

"_Titus Andronicus_ is, without question, the gore show of Shakespeare's work," Fisher agreed. "This suggests a need to speak for those who are forcibly silent, and a theme of vengeance, which, as I explained to Dr. Sweets, is a common theme among all of the works the killer has mentioned or enacted with his murders."

"There are several crimes committed in the play. Hodgins, Sweets, could you come here?"

"I'm the killer," Hodgins quickly blurted out.

Angela snickered. "Well played, honey."

"I don't understand," Sweets protested.

"You don't need to understand. Just do as I say," Brennan said.

"In the first major death of the play, Tamora's eldest son is sacrificed for the funeral pyre of Titus' dead son," Fisher began. "His limbs are removed and entrails tossed into the fire."

"Hodgins?"

Baffled, yet also amused, he feigned lopping off Sweets' arms. The confused psychologist remained standing.

"Fall in the fire, Sweets," Brennan instructed.

"What?"

"He's not a very good victim," she commented to Fisher.

"He's too chicken to play along," Booth goaded playfully.

"I am not!"

Fisher waved away his protests. "Next death: Bassianus is stabbed so Lavinia can be kidnapped and raped. Not exactly an unusual death, but the staging would apply for another couple being abducted."

Fisher approached Hodgins and feigned stabbing him. Booth and Cam laughed hard as they realized the implication: Sweets was the woman.

"Drag her away, Fisher," Brennan commanded, grinning.

"Let's just pretend we did," Sweets protested. "is this necessary, Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes!" the group replied in a chorus as Fisher yanked the young doctor several feet to the right with a leer.

"Titus's sons are then executed, but it's a trivial scene in the scope of other crimes, so we'll move along," Brennan continued. "Although Titus is tricked into severing his own hand, which could be employed by the killers."

"This play is disgusting!" Angela exclaimed. "Give me the romances any day!"

"The rapists are then killed and baked into a meat pie, which is served to their mother, who orchestrated the whole evil thing with her thirst for vengeance," Fisher pronounced ominously.

"Ew," Cam muttered.

"But in her defense, Titus killed her eldest son and fed him to the funeral pyre," Brennan offered.

"I am not being chopped up into a pie!" Sweets announced with indignation, returning to his seat.

"The meat pie bothers you, but Fisher was allowed to call you a girl and kidnap you?" Booth asked.

"I wonder what psychology would have to say about that," Brennan teased.

"Men did play the female roles in Shakespearean times," Fisher observed wryly as Sweets glared at Booth.

"In the end, almost everyone's stabbed or killed, with the final death being a man buried to his neck in sand and left to starve to death," Brennan concluded, talking over the chatter in the room. "Considering that death was of the key leader behind the horrific rape of Lavinia, it's a strong candidate for our next death scene, should we not stop the killer."

"So no trips to the beach, then. Got it!" Angela affirmed.

Brennan sighed at the unruly group. "This has certainly not gone according to plan, Fisher."

Her intern shrugged. "The Bard doesn't speak to them like he speaks to us, Dr. Brennan."

"Alright people, enough!" Cam shouted over the din. "In brief: no one goes anywhere without protection; no one goes near a beach; we all steer clear of fire; and I'm becoming a vegetarian."

Brennan pondered this for a moment. "That will do."

Booth shuddered. "Even I'm not eager to eat a steak anytime soon. Thanks, Bones. Thanks a lot. Angela, any hits yet with the property owners?"

"Nothing, but the search is still... Bren?"

Angela's quiet inquiry drew the room's attention to Brennan, but she was oblivious to their stares. Her eyes remained locked on the man standing outside of the office.

"Tempe."

She drew a deep breath, willing herself to remain calm. _Don't let them see you cry_. The woman was again the teenager without a family, and she instinctively stepped backwards, crossing her arms over her chest as if to shield the heart within.

"I told you not to come," she stated quietly.

His face was that of an apology, of failure, but it was hard to reconcile that emotion with the realities of what she'd endured because of his choices. Angela was right: the situations weren't entirely the same.

"Tempe, we really need to talk," Max pleaded.

"Max..."

A cautionary growl. Booth, ever protective. Brennan didn't know whether to kiss him or assert her ability to take care of herself. The decision ultimately wasn't hers to make, or so it seemed. With a forceful stride, Angela crossed the room and slugged her father in the jaw.

"How dare you?" Angela hissed. "How dare you not respect her after what you've done?"

"Ange?"

"Did I miss something?" Cam mumbled.

"_A hit! A very palpable hit_," Fisher enthused in a British accent.

Max, to his credit, took the hit in stride, his voice calm. "I don't understand what I've done."

"I already explained," Brennan mumbled, feeling a twinge of vertigo.

"And so did I," Booth snapped, lunging forward. "Hodgins?"

She felt paralyzed, which was impossible, given that she had sustained no injury, nor did she have any disease that would induce such a feeling. And feelings: so many were coursing through her, all at once. She wanted to scream in rage and wanted to be wrapped in her father's arms. She wanted to cry and wanted to express gratitude for keeping her and Christine alive for one hellish summer away from the man she loved so completely that it terrified her and elated her all at once. Instead, she remained motionless as Booth and Hodgins forcibly removed her father from the lab, calling out to security as they moved for the door.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Angela whispered. "But he should've known that coming here was unfair to you."

"I need to... my office. Excuse me."

She willed herself forward, taking the steps quickly and methodically without concern for her coworkers – her chosen family, as Booth once explained to her – and slammed the office door behind her. With one painful gasp, she broke: tears streamed down her face as she slumped to the ground, hugging her knees. Every compartment, every emotion she'd carefully buried away, was tumbling free now.

It was one more thing Pelant had taken from her and her hatred for him also surged forward, because he was out there somewhere, free, while she was in some irrational mental prison where nothing made sense anymore.

* * *

"The dam's finally broken, hasn't it?" Sweets asked Angela.

"You could definitely say that," she replied sadly.

Cam's head rose as Booth and Hodgins returned without Brennan's father. "He's gone?"

Hodgins nodded. "He went without much of a fight. Speaking of, I brought you some ice, slugger." He tossed an icepack to Angela, who caught it with a mumbled thank you.

"Where's Bones?" Booth asked, scanning the room.

"Her office," Angela replied. "But Booth, you should know –"

"I know."

"Are you sure?" Sweets asked. "Are you sure you fully understand what's happening here?"

With a shake of his head, Booth replied, "No, I don't fully understand, nor do any of you. None of us are Bones, alright? She thinks on a level all her own, a level that maybe only Zack ever understood. Her heart... It's incredible, but she buries it in thoughts."

"We know this, Booth," Angela interjected.

Booth frowned. "Ange, you know her, but you've never been her, and neither have I. So while yeah, we get her, neither of us will ever fully understand her perception of things. But I understand _her_, and that's all I need to get from what I see to what she sees. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take care of her and the rest of you can get back to finding this sicko who's probably cooking a stagehand meat pie right now."

Without waiting for a reply, he headed for her office, carefully weighing out the facts as he understood them. She was upset at her father. She was worried about something. The mixed emotions that had crossed her face minutes before reminded him of the week after her return and the warring emotions within him. _Fall out from her summer away_, he reasoned, and with that thought came the stupid fear again: S_he's done with me. She wants to leave me_.

But then he heard her sobbing and his needs and foolish fears were forgotten. _Protect her._ It was the mantra he had lived by for years. It was his only thought as he thrust open the door of her office.

* * *

**_Max just doesn't know when to quit, does he? I feel bad for him, especially after rewatching old episodes and remembering that Bren's mom said that it was her choice to leave the kids behind and Max fought it to the bitter end.  
_**

**_Next chapter: Booth, Brennan... Let's see if he can help her sort out her heart - that is, if she'll open up with him.  
_**


	11. Chapter 11

_**AN: I could write an essay about Brennan's family. So many different angles to consider... You really can't fault Sweets for wanting to write a book about this duo.  
**_

_**Let's see if Booth can get Brennan to open up and let him in. If anyone can...  
**_

_**Also, I don't normally quote a whole song, but this one is so perfect for these two through Change In The Game. Go find it on YouTube and play it.  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare. This chapter recalls dialogue from past episodes and is used for context.  
**_

* * *

_To love somebody naturally_  
_To love somebody faithfully  
To love somebody equally is not enough  
Is not enough  
It's not enough_

_To love somebody secretly and never touch_  
_To love somebody honestly and always trust_  
_To love somebody tenderly_  
_The tender touch is not enough_  
_It's not enough_

_Love hurts you sometimes_  
_It's not so easy to find, no_  
_Searchin' everywhere_  
_You turn and swear it's always been there_

_To love somebody foolishly can happen once_  
_To love somebody hopelessly, it hurts so much_  
_To love somebody equally is not enough_  
_Is not enough_  
_It's not enough_

_Love takes a little time_  
_It's not so easy to find, no_  
_Searchin' everywhere_  
_You turn and swear it's always been there_  
_Standin' there_

_And if it don't come easily_  
_One thing you must believe_  
_You can always have trust in me_  
_'Cause my heart will always be yours honestly_

_Love hurts you sometimes_  
_It's not so easy to find, no_  
_Searchin' everywhere_  
_You turn and swear it's always been there_  
_Standin' there_  
_Love hurts you sometimes_  
_It's not yours, it's not mine, no_  
_Love is only to share_  
_You turn and swear, it's everywhere_  
_Standin' there_  
_'Cause it's always been there_

_**Not Enough – Van Halen**_

* * *

He found her on the floor by her desk, knees drawn to her chest and her head bowed. Immediately he fell to the ground, his hands upon her shoulders as if this could somehow steady her.

"Bones, talk to me," he urged.

He hated seeing her cry – hated anyone who made her cry, himself included. The Eames case... He'd waited outside for Angela to arrive, his poker chip in hand the entire time, flipping and flipping. Twice he'd thrown open his door, only to tug it shut again in defeat. Because he'd broken her heart and couldn't fix it. And then he'd gone to the bar, only to immediately turn away, because he knew one bar would lead to another with a pool table and then, then he would have lost her forever. Because he'd steered clear since the night she'd left him in the rain in one of many cabs. Because he wanted to be deserving of her.

Even then, she'd made him a better man.

"Stupid," she mumbled, tears tumbling onto her lab coat.

"You being upset isn't stupid. It's heartbreaking."

"Hearts can't break," she chided weakly, forcing a half-smile for him.

His hand traced her jaw, coming to rest on her chin. With a gentle nudge, he brought her eyes to meet his.

"I know you're upset at Max. I know you've been avoiding him."

"How –"

"In addition to the number of calls you've ignored from him, he called me. I told him to give you space, but he's never been a guy who listens," Booth explained. "He won't be back until you want him back."

"Thanks."

It was a whisper, and that worried him, because Temperance Brennan did not fear speaking her mind, not ever. Her voice was loud and proud, even when she was shoving her foot straight down her throat.

"What did he do?"

After a long hesitation, she sighed. "Nothing new. I... I've lost my compartments."

Booth caught himself before asking what she meant, the implications suddenly clear. _She can't compartmentalize her emotions. Which means... Crap._ Everything she'd ever felt about Max abandoning her was a raw wound. It explained her avoidance. But why was this happening now? What was the trigger?

His own words, spoken years ago to her father, came to mind: "_You abandoned her as a child. You don't think she feels that, every time you pop in and out of her life?_"

"This summer."

Frustrated, Bones pulled her hair loose and ran an anxious hand through it. "This is so irrational! All of it is! This is why I told you I couldn't..."

"I know you need time, Bones. I've given you time. Give me something to help you with."

The tears continued to fall and his stomach continued to sink. "I did what you said, Booth. I let myself love him. I turned off the brain. But suddenly, it's... It's like it was when I first understood that they'd chosen to leave me and Russ. He betrayed me." Her arms flew around his neck and Booth held her tightly. "It hurts," she whimpered, child-like.

How had he not seen this before? She'd as much as said it when Max began watching Christine for them and stressed it again when he failed to answer her constant phone calls. No matter how well she'd tried to move forward...

"You never forgave him, did you? You accepted it."

"I guess I didn't... I rationally decided that there was nothing I could do. We couldn't change it. And when you told me that he got arrested on purpose, that he stayed for me, I decided that no matter how awful he was in the past, it was better to have a father than not have one."

"I get that," Booth reassured her. "Brain and heart don't always agree. Doesn't make either one of them wrong."

She pulled back abruptly, staring him down. "I can't control the heart, Booth! I hate it! No matter how many different ways I attempt to rationalize things, the emotions override it all. Intellectually, I know he was a good father before they abandoned us. I know that without his help, something horrible may have happened to me or Christine this summer. I feel grateful for that help. But I hate him, Booth!"

"Hate is a strong emotion," he mused aloud, unsure of how to react.

She flew to her feet and began to pace frantically. "Yes! Yes, it is. And I feel it inside me and I don't care for it. I'm not a hateful person. But I _hate_ him. Hate and love. It's irrational. There's no other word."

Booth rose slowly to his feet. "Bones –"

"You want to know why I love Shakespeare?" she suddenly asked. "I'll tell you, if you want to know."

Booth suddenly didn't want to know, although a part of him already knew the truth. It was plain as the pained expression on her face and the way her hands shook. Her hands had only shaken that way once before that he could recall: in Sweets' office.

"You can tell me, Bones," he said quietly.

"The anthology was my mother's," she began, her tremulous voice scarcely audible. "I didn't take much with me when social services came..."

"It comforts you," Booth said, edging closer.

She nodded furiously, wiping roughly at her eyes. "For two days... I was certain I would die. It became difficult to remain conscious, so I recited _Hamlet_. Over and over and..."

Her words fell away and her head hung in sorrow. _The trunk. Her bastard foster father. _Booth felt his fists clench and forced them open, reminding himself that he'd looked the man up years ago and found out he was already dead. Again, he opened his arms to her; again, she fell into his embrace.

"I'm so sorry." It seemed so inadequate a statement in light of her revelation, but he was sorry. _No one deserves to be treated that way. Especially not her_.

"_To be or not be; that is the question_," she sobbed into his shoulder. "But it's not. It's forgive or not forgive, and I don't know that I ever will, not now. Because he didn't just leave me. He changed me. I'm never going to be the same person."

"Shh... You're the same woman I know and love."

"I'm not, Booth. I'm him." With the heaviness of shame in her voice, she looked up. "I'm my father's daughter."

Booth swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. _This isn't just about Max. It's about us_. "Bones, you are not a murderer."

"Technically, I am. I killed Pam Nunan," she countered. "But regardless, I listened to him and did the one thing I can't even forgive him for doing. I abandoned you. Left you without answers."

"Pelant –"

"Angela says it's different," she interrupted quickly. "That I was forced to flee. That I wasn't a criminal. But I still left you."

Again, he tried to stop this train of thought that was clearly on its way to nowhere good. "But –"

"_I took your daughter_!" she shouted, her hand pressing to her chest as she pulled away. "And it doesn't matter if it was _rational_, because I know how it feels to be abandoned, how it feels to wonder where someone's gone. I know what it's like to believe you may never see someone again..."

For five minutes, he had been angry with her on the steps of that church. She had taken their daughter without a word of warning or explanation. For five minutes, he'd wanted to scream at her. In the sixth minute, his anger shifted to Pelant, understanding that his methodical attack on their lives, their family, was the true villain. He'd shifted his anger to circumstance, to things beyond their control. It was clear that she had not been able to do so, and her parents were the reason why.

He was speechless. Of all times to have absolutely no instinctive words of comfort, now had to be the absolute worst. There were so many layers to her distress. Peeling back any one of them seemed destined to only reveal more heartache.

"How do you forgive the unforgivable? My rationalization for what my parents did was that it wasn't possible to take us with them, but I took Christine with me. The premise is shaky at best now." Brennan reached for a nearby box of tissues, angrily pulling several free and blowing her nose. "And if I can't forgive and I can't compartmentalize anymore, then how do I accept him in my life? How do I deny Christine her grandfather? Doesn't that make me even more like him? He hid my grandparents from me."

"It's okay to need time. This case is probably bringing a lot of this to the surface. After we've got this one wrapped up, maybe you –"

"How can I trust that you've forgiven me?"

Her words cut through him, sucking the air from his chest. "You don't trust me?"

"I don't forgive myself," she confessed sadly. "I understand that I did the best thing I could. But if I can't forgive him, how do I forgive myself? And if I can't forgive him, how can I expect you to forgive me?"

"Because I already have!"

"What if you're compartmentalizing?" she yelled at him. "What if someday, you wake up and... and..."

He completed the sentence silently as her head bowed sadly: _What if you leave me_? He had to admit that he'd picked up a little of her compartmentalization, but it never worked out well. He never forgot about the emotions, let alone stopped feeling them. He simply found a way to push them to the background to function. She of all people should realize that he wasn't capable of it. _But the fear is drowning out the logic, the evidence_.

"I love you, but you can be so goddamn stubborn," he muttered, pulling her against him.

"But even you said it's hard to trust someone who's abandoned you!" she protested.

Her memory was a blessing and a curse. He had said that, once upon a long time ago. But that was a different time, with different circumstances.

"You didn't abandon me, alright? You left, but I knew you'd be back. Because you and I, we don't work without each other." Seeing the doubt in her eyes, he continued. "What do you think the odds are that two people with as many issues as we have with love and relationships, two people with a passion for justice and respect for life, two people with abandonment and abuse in their histories – what are the odds of us coming together by mere chance? You can deny it all you want, but this is fate. I wake up every morning and think about how lucky I am to finally be with someone who makes me happy, but more than that, someone I can be myself around. We have this gorgeous daughter who will probably be smarter than me by age five and we have a Squinty son who's all but hated every single woman I dated before you. We have our partnership, even though the FBI forbids it, because everyone – _everyone_ – knows that nothing can keep us apart anyway, so why try?"

His hand grazed her cheek and she leaned into the touch, as she had for years. Magnetic attraction from the start. _I knew_.

"We took some time to adjust when you came back, but that's behind us. I'm not angry anymore, and even if I was, it wouldn't be enough to ruin what we have. If being blown up, shot, deployed to a war zone, all of that couldn't keep us apart, you fleeing a serial killer? You can't get rid of me that easily."

He flashed her _that_ smile, the one she (accurately) claimed he used to get his way, and suddenly her lips were on his. His back collided with the wall as passion overtook them both, their bodies a tangle of needy mouths and hands craving touch. Forgetting where they were, Booth hoisted her into the air, her legs reflexively locking around his waist as he reversed their positions.

"I love you," he murmured, breaking off for air.

"I love you," she whispered.

"Convinced I'm staying yet?"

"You can be pretty persuasive," she replied coyly, "But I require rigorous proof, as a scientist."

Nipping her neck, Booth chuckled. "Rigorous? I can arrange that."

"Glass walls," she blurted out quickly, her cheeks flushing. "Booth –"

He silenced her with another kiss, this one less frantic but no less intense. Screw propriety. They weren't leaving this office until she felt safe and loved, and if that meant breaking several office rules, so be it. He knew he was probably thinking with the wrong head now, but who could blame him with this gorgeous woman grinding against him?

"Need more convincing?"

"I _want_ more convincing, but suspect that unless we duck into my crammed closet, we should save this for a more private venue," she reluctantly replied.

With a frustrated groan, he carried her to the couch, gently dropping her into the cushions. Before he could protest, she pulled him on top of her, grinning.

"Of course, we can't be seen very well from this angle," she demurred.

"You're killing me, Bones."

Their kissing was interrupted by a sharp rapping on the office door, which startled Booth enough to send him rolling to the ground.

"Booth! Are you okay?"

He rubbed his knee, which had taken the brunt of the fall. "I'll live." _Mostly_.

The door opened slowly, revealing a confused Angela. "Everything alright?"

With a shy look in his direction, his partner replied, "Yes. Why?"

Eying her friend's messy hair and their positions, Angela smirked. "Well, we finally have a break. None of the landowners are tied to the school, but there's a huge parkland in that zone Hodgins identified, with an abandoned house nearby. You _coming_?"

Booth rolled his eyes at Angela's wink. "Yeah, yeah, we'll be right there."

"She was insinuating something sexual, wasn't she?" Brennan asked as Angela left, offering him a hand.

"Yeah." Ignoring his need for a cold shower, he laced his fingers between hers. "You okay?"

She nodded. "I'm still... There's a great deal that I still can't bring to resolution. A lot of emotions. But scared isn't one of them now."

"Good." His lips pressed to her forehead lightly. "It's okay to have mixed feelings about your father, about this summer. It's okay to be overwhelmed right now. But you're not alone in any of it. You have me."

She pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail, smoothing her clothing. "I'll... I'll try to be more communicative."

Booth shook his head. "Even if you can't talk about it, just let me be there for you, alright? I'm not going anywhere, Temperance," he added emphatically.

And there it was: that smile. The one on her lips that night when she'd told him about her pregnancy. The one she'd flashed him when he came to her place the night after apprehending Broadsky. The one she wore on her face every time they made love.

"I believe you, Booth."

Hand in hand, they walked out of the office.

* * *

**_This was one of those rare moments that called for a Temperance. I'm a little weirded out by Booth calling her "Brennan" though. At least she's opened up to Booth... and at least she feels that part of her life is secure. But Bren's got a lot more soulsearching to do before this fic ends (and Booth has to get some shit straight, too).  
_**

**_For now, we're off to find the toxic plant that murdered Evan Mackenzie. What will we find? Stay tuned...  
_**

**_Fair warning: I have another (fluffier) fic in the works. Blame The Ghost In The Machine.  
_**


	12. Chapter 12

_**AN: Thank you so much for the positive feedback for the last chapter! It was one of those ones I wrote and tweaked and changed several times to get right. I'm glad the work paid off!  
**_

_**On my profile page, I now have an update schedule for my ongoing fics, this one included. I will now be posting this story weekly on Wednesdays until completed, starting next week (we're looking at about 20 chapters from my outline). This is so I have time for my new story (see the end notes). Enjoy!  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare.  
**_

* * *

Hodgins unfolded the map on the hood of Booth's SUV, smoothing the creases and revealing a block of land outlined in red.

"Given the proportions of the trace minerals and chemicals found in the sample, I was able to focus on this half of the park," he explained, gesturing to the area.

"Hodgins, that's a huge area!" Booth blurted out. "We're losing daylight and you want us to cover five miles square?"

"Not exactly," he replied. "We're looking in particular for the _Cicuta douglasii_ or Western water hemlock plant. It's not indigenous to Virginia, as a rule, but more important, it grows only in wet places."

"Like near this stream," Brennan said, gesturing to the water running through the park's centre.

Hodgins nodded. "Exactly. We only need to cover the banks of the stream. Given that around here lies a now abandoned and condemned house, I'd suggest that our killer likely used the house as a base of operations, should this be the right park."

"So we could be in the wrong place?" Booth asked.

"Unlikely," Angela chimed in. "Based on the percentages Hodgins gave me from his analysis, this area is the best fit by a significant margin."

Satisfied with this, Booth waved over the FBI technicians they'd called in as extra hands. After some debate, he sent them to the farthest point where the stream crossed the parkland. The Jeffersonian Team would work from the other end, with the teams converging centrally. The abandoned house in question fell within the Jeffersonian half of the stream, although it was at least two miles in. The team, now familiarized with the appearance of the plant, broke in half, each taking a different side of the stream. Booth and Angela seemed to be on the same wavelength, the two of them pointedly choosing to work with Brennan. Brennan wasn't oblivious to their protectiveness, and while part of her felt annoyed at the thought that she was too emotional to perform at her job, she knew this would reassure them both. From a practical perspective, Angela had a keen eye that would prove invaluable for sorting through the plant life in efficient fashion, and Booth of course was as perceptive as anyone she knew.

The first mile was covered quickly, the banks sullied by trash and pollution from exploring visitors. It wasn't conducive to covertly growing a toxic plant for the purposes of an elaborate murder. Occasionally, the other team – Hodgins, Cam and Fisher – would flag them down, revealing that they, too, were having no luck.

"I really feel we should have immediately began at the house and branched outwards," Brennan said, her gloved hand gently teasing apart a cluster of marsh reeds.

"We'd be passing this area on the way though," Booth replied. "We're better to just eliminate it as we go."

"I suppose... Nothing here. Ange?"

"Nothing over here," her friend replied ten feet further upstream.

They moved on, Brennan contemplating her embarrassing and lengthy emotional outburst in her office. Angela, as usual, had been right: in talking to Booth, she was able to release one part of the painful puzzle she continued to struggle with. His points had all been sound and rational, appealing to her brain. The _way _he'd spoken though, the way he'd held her... those had reassured her heart.

Brennan was no stranger to disingenuous touches, physical contact that was without love and at times, without even a modicum of respect. Her decision in life to protect her metaphorical heart at all costs had created a divide between her sexual satisfaction and emotional bonding, and with it came the risk of choosing an inappropriate suitor not even worthy of a night's physical enjoyment. On a dig with her university, she'd nearly fallen victim to assault by a local mercenary and his crude desires; it was fortunate their guide and her professor had come to find her. Over time, she enforced a strict policy forbidding her physical mates from staying the night – for the protection of herself and the hearts of those prone to attachment. To a limited extent, she'd bent the rules for Sully, but had never been entirely comfortable.

With Booth, she'd always been comfortable with contact, in that she trusted him not to cause her harm. It was why his grab of her arm on that first case nine years ago had so offended her: she'd expected better. He was a person of feelings, his facial expressions and body language always giving him away. It was how she'd known that they weren't okay when she first returned. It was how she'd known, staring at the night sky in Maluku, that he was the only person she could dare to enter a relationship with that might not turn out a disaster like the rest. Now, it was the memory of his eyes and the way his body welcomed her inside her office that assured her that he was sincere. She had kissed him to verify that her interpretation of his body language was accurate and although she'd been inappropriately responsive, she did not regret her actions. Everything she'd needed to confirm was in the kisses they shared. No politeness, no awkwardness. Just love, the desperate kind they'd shared that first night, the threat of Broadsky looming over them.

_Booth's not going to leave me. He forgives me, even if I don't._

And yet, she knew that she needed to process the rest of the fragmented thoughts and fears in her mind. Booth never liked it when she self-deprecated, and with her lack of forgiveness for her own actions came negativity that hurt him. That, too, was clearly displayed during their conversation. Her father... She couldn't hide forever. She needed to come to a final position and move forward. Dwelling on the past was futile and foolhardy, but she was beginning to accept the premise that past pains shaped present behaviour. How she would reconcile that influence with her feelings about the present, she wasn't certain.

"Bren? What about this one?"

She startled, glancing over at Angela's find. _Work, Temperance. That's what you're here to do_. After studying the plant carefully, she shook her head.

"Close, but not hemlock. This is water parsnip. The base at the stem and the single compound leaves give it away. Hemlock has thrice compounded leaves and a larger base."

"Got it."

From up ahead, Booth shook his head in frustration. "Are you sure this stuff needs to grow by the stream?"

"Absolutely. It would be difficult to cultivate to begin with. One would need to ensure survival of the plant for the distillation of the toxins," she replied.

Across the stream, Hodgins shook his head, her colleague equally frustrated with their lack of success. _It'll be by the house_, she thought. It was the most logical means of tracking the plant and locating it again quickly. It was also an area deep within the parkland, where one could take measures to deter wildlife from grazing.

"This is rather late in the year for water hemlock to blossom," she mused aloud.

Booth glanced over. "What does that mean?"

"Well, granted, a cultivated growth could have been planted late, but hemlock generally blooms by July in nature. It's early October." Frowning, she kneeled beside the next patch for inspection. "It's possible that our killer has been planning this for a long time. At the very least, he took the time to nurture the hemlock. One, maybe two months."

"Kind of like his month of imprisonment for Violet Richter?"

Brennan nodded, dismissing her latest area. "Nothing here. And yes, Booth. Exactly like that. He seems to enjoy lengthier processes as part of his kills."

"Kinda makes that sand starvation more likely, doesn't it?" Angela asked.

Brennan nodded. "Absolutely."

The sun was beginning to set as the search came within sight of the house. _We need more time_, Brennan thought. The other team wasn't yet in sight, although this didn't surprise her. They were often very inefficient at their jobs.

"We may need light soon," she advised Booth.

"Yeah, I was thinking we might. Damn it." His phone in hand, he began scrolling through his contacts.

She glanced across the stream, where Cam and Hodgins seemed to be arguing over something. Fisher, for his part, was watching them with a bemused expression. She opened her mouth to call them across but fell mute as she heard it.

Someone was shouting.

Tilting her head, she listened carefully, trying to determine the direction of the noise. As Booth began to speak she waved her arm angrily, pressing her finger to her lips. Had she imagined it?

The second shout was louder, its source clear: the abandoned house.

Dropping her kit, she stormed towards the house, the dying light perhaps an even greater disadvantage. Transporting an injured person would be difficult due to the terrain, let alone lack of visibility. A third call rang out as Booth rushed up beside her, weapon drawn.

"I go first," he muttered.

"Someone needs –"

"Help? Like that's never been a trap?" Booth interrupted.

_He has a point_. She fell slightly behind him, wishing that she had a weapon of her own. They circled around the perimeter, Booth peering through filthy windows, attempting to catch a glimpse of the mystery shouter.

"Do you see anything?"

"Of course not. There's no light."

"Damn it." Booth shook his head, readying himself at the rear door. "Do not enter until I say it's clear, got it?"

"Okay." She wasn't about to argue with him.

With a deep breath, Booth broke down the door, scanning in all directions. The fading light afforded some visibility now, and with it, she was able to make out a figure on the floor in the farthest corner.

"Help!" the figure pleaded, coughing violently.

She pulled her flashlight from her pocket, casting its powerful beam inside the house. Her eyes widened as she recognized the person calling for aid – and his predicament.

"Mr. Laroche?"

"Director guy?" Booth asked, moving closer.

"Yes!" Ignoring her promise to Booth, she strode inside and dropped beside him. "How long have you been here?"

"Bones, what did I say?"

"Booth, he's buried alive!"

Her light swung, revealing the full weight of the predicament for her partner. She could hear him exhale loudly as the director groaned and coughed again. Sand, just as Shakespeare described, surrounded the man to just below his chin. _But this makes no sense. The floor of this house is asphalt, and beneath it would be concrete. _She offered water to the man and he swallowed several gulps in quick succession.

"Upstairs is clear," Booth announced as he joined her. "Do you remember how you got here?"

The director shook his head. "No, I was working in my office and... I woke up here."

From the doorway, Angela's voice rang out. "The others are on their way over here. What's going on?"

"Director's buried in sand," Booth replied.

Brennan's hands pushed sand aside, immediately confirming her suspicions. "Booth, we're going to need some assistance."

"What is it?"

"He's not just buried beneath sand," she explained, directing her light. "He's been sealed in with concrete underneath."

* * *

"Can't you do this in less painful fashion?" Francis Laroche complained.

Booth rubbed his temples, fighting the burgeoning migraine triggered by the excavation crew's assorted noisy tools. Whoever this killer was, Booth wanted to string him upside down outside a construction site for three days as punishment.

Given the presence of a living person in the concrete, using standard industrial x-ray techniques was simply impossible; it would be tremendously risky to Francis Laroche's already compromised health. Instead, they'd had to make a wide berth around the man, using his descriptions of positioning beneath the surface and his height to estimate where to safely begin etching at the slab. Luckily for them, the killer hadn't buried him entirely in concrete; that layer only extended two feet, enough to ensure the man wouldn't fight his way free. The remainder of the pit was filled with dirt and debris.

It was Cam who'd pointed out that even the two feet of tight compression could be creating internal injuries that may prove fatal, which meant Booth had to take his statement during the rescue. As expected, the slimy bastard was highly uncooperative at first. Bones had suddenly marched over and informed him that he was likely to lose a testicle if the concrete extended far enough, which strangely got the guy talking. _Then again, if some asshole took out my family jewels, I'd want him to pay too._

"How much longer?" he shouted at Hodgins.

"Five minutes, give or take. Then we transport him to the ER."

Booth gestured to the large Tube O' Theatre Nut being removed from the earth. "What, like that?"

"Yes, like that," Cam interjected. "If there are any projectiles jutting into him, the concrete may be the only thing preventing fatal wounds. Same goes for the compression injuries. It's best to finish the job outside the ER so immediate treatment is available."

"Yeesh! We have a truck for him or something?"

"Flatbed," Cam replied. "It brought the generator and lights in."

Booth sighed, taking in the somewhat chaotic scene. This was definitely one of the weirder moments of his career. Aside from a time frame for the act (somewhere in the last eight hours), they had very little to work with. Laroche had arrived in his office, coffee in hand, and remembered nothing until he awoke trapped.

"This guy was smart," Hodgins noted. "He ensured the conditions for curing the concrete were incredibly optimal. The proportions used, the control of moisture and temperature... this stuff hardened faster than usual."

"So he's in construction?"

"Or knows how to Google," Angela replied. "Took me five minutes to find out the details on my phone."

"Where's Bones?"

"Collecting water hemlock samples and ordering around the FBI techs," Angela replied.

"Hmm. That's good – means she's back to her usual self," Booth quipped.

"Seriously!?" Laroche shouted over the din. "You're strapping me to a bloody truck?"

"I hate theatre," Booth grumbled.

"Uh, Dr. Hodgins?" The group swung around, catching sight of a young FBI technician who looked as if he'd been chewed out for several long minutes at least. "Dr. Brennan requires your expertise."

"I'll go with you," Booth volunteered.

They found her a good fifty metres north of the house, crouched near the stream with a Maglite in hand. Noticing their approach, she rose to her feet, looking incredibly irate.

"Hodgins, I'm glad to see you. Apparently none of these people has any comprehension of how to carefully preserve a plant and the artificially fertilized soil without destroying the integrity of the layers."

"No worries, Dr. B. I'm on it."

"Artificially fertilized?" Booth asked as Hodgins took his partner's place.

"Yes. The killer clearly encouraged the growth of the hemlock with a professional blend of fertilized soil. Superficially, it's similar to that used by the Jeffersonian in its landscaping endeavours."

"Can we trace it?"

"Absolutely," Hodgins chimed in from the ground. "I recognize this stuff. There's a plant food blended into the manure and soil composite. Should be able to identify the brand name by chemical composition and manure sourcing. Whether that will give you a narrow range of buyers, I can't say."

"So not a smoking gun, then?"

"Sorry, Booth. More like a strong supporting piece of evidence. This stuff's pretty popular with the college cannabis cultivators... not that I know anything about that," Hodgins added quickly.

"Of course you don't," Booth said, rolling his eyes.

Brennan gestured to the house. "Given that there are no bones for me to examine at this time, perhaps I should return home and be with Christine?"

Booth frowned. "Not alone, you don't."

"Booth –"

"Bones, this guy buried someone to their neck in sand and concrete and left him to die slowly. He threatened the lab. For all we know, he's watched us at some point today. Please, indulge me: give me twenty to clear the scene and we'll go together."

She sighed and Booth knew her innate stubbornness would trigger an argument by default. After a long moment, she nodded slowly, much to his surprise. He kissed the top of her head in gratitude, smiling as she giggled and quietly murmured his name in protest.

"Hey Booth? We've got something here you'll want to see."

Booth and Brennan made their way downstream, following the FBI technician back to the house. Finally released from his pit, the director was being strapped to the flatbed truck in his concrete hula hoop.

"When we aimed the lights inside to facilitate the move, we spotted it on the walls. Looks like red paint, best we can tell," the tech explained, ushering them inside.

Booth followed the technician's gestures, taking in the words on the wall. For all of his loathing of Shakespeare, this was a quote he recognized himself.

"Back to _Hamlet_. Why?"

Brennan shook her head. "I don't know... What I do know is that our killer has planned every detail. He's picked his next victim already."

"He's telling us this isn't random," Booth said.

"No. This is his story. We need to figure out the ending before he stages it."

The wall continued to menace them with its ominous truth: _Though this be madness, yet there is method in it._

* * *

**_Method to the madness? Well, maybe from a killer's warped mind, it's logical. Poor Brennan. Hamlet is so personal for her, too._**

**_Speaking of Brennan, it seems she's got a bit of her own spin on her chat with Booth, although she's getting there. We'll poke inside her brain a little more next chapter, where Fisher has a key insight._**

**_The observant will have noticed that I've started a new fic this week, inspired by the mix tape scene in The Ghost In The Machine. The Mixed Tape is a musical journey through B&B, from a decidedly Booth POV. I'm not generally a first person writer, but there may be a few vignettes and one-shots in the series that go that way. Expect angst, fluff, perhaps smut? There's also an element of, shall we say, Choose Your Own Adventure to it? Check it out.  
_**

**_Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated!  
_**


	13. Chapter 13

_**AN: Thank you to those who reviewed! I admit I've been struggling a bit with this story lately, and reviews help keep me focused.  
**_

_**Fresh day, fresh start... let's see what the Jeffersonian's found at the Laroche scene.  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare.  
**_

* * *

"_Good men are scarce and few  
But always passing through_

_Oh you mirrored sea_  
_Your waves, they're haunting me_  
_They're all I see_  
_Now let me be, you mirrored sea_  
_Your waves, they're haunting me_  
_Out in the sea, leave me be_

_Whatever chance that I've been ready_  
_It takes more to risk it at the end of the rope..."_

_**Mirrored Sea – Passion Pit**_

* * *

Brennan grimaced as her alarm blared beside her, swatting the snooze button in a rare protest of routine. The previous day's trek had taken a physical toll, but the emotional toll of seeing her father and opening up to Booth had drained her completely. Turning to her right, her hand swept over the empty space and a twinge of sadness hit her. She needed a day off with Booth at her side and no obligations, but murderers didn't take time off.

With a groan, she swung her feet to the ground and slowly stood up, stretching her aching arms. It would be an early day today: no bones awaited her expert opinion. _Perhaps I can convince Booth to call it an early day as well, _she mused, immediately nixing the idea. Booth had outstanding reports from his last case to attend to. He'd likely turn his attention there if he found free time.

Familiar sounds from downstairs caught her attention as she slipped inside the bathroom and she smiled. _Booth's cooking breakfast_. Although her own proficiencies in that department had improved as a result of her time away, she'd quickly fallen back into leaving that territory as Booth's. It brought him happiness and that, in turn, made her happy as well. Plus, for all of her skills, she silently acknowledged that his omelets were superior. After freshening herself up, she headed downstairs towards the welcome scent of coffee.

"Hey! Good timing," Booth greeted her, lifting her eggs out of the pan and nestling them carefully beside a grapefruit half and wheat toast.

"Thank you." She kissed him lightly and accepted the outstretched plate. "You already scored the grapefruit?"

"You hit snooze. Thought I'd save you time."

Brennan shook her head, smiling. Little gestures meant the most to her. It was easy to plan and execute a lavish dinner or party; it was a very goal-oriented exercise that most people could excel at. But spur of the moment kindnesses were more genuine. Their reflexive nature revealed the person behind them.

Settling in at the table, she found her coffee waiting, sweetened to her liking. For a moment, guilt began to set in. _You worried him yesterday. Badly._ Just as quickly, she dismissed the negativity. _Booth is always thoughtful, and so what? So what if he wishes to be extra kind to me_? She deserved it. Booth assured her of this frequently. _And I believe Booth_.

She bit into her toast as Booth joined her, his plate identical except for the generous portion of bacon. That would never change, she knew. For one week, he'd graciously attempted to enjoy turkey bacon in her bid to improve his eating habits, but at the end, he'd come home with a package of pork bacon and she'd accepted defeat.

"Is Christine still sleeping?"

Booth nodded. "Angela's babysitter must have tired her right out yesterday."

_Ah_. With this statement came the unspoken ones: for example, after the Jeffersonian's daycare closed for the day, their new default option was to share Michael's usual late-night babysitter, as opposed to her father. She dug into her grapefruit thoughtfully, struggling to keep her face neutral.

"Well, it should be an early night tonight," she responded at last. "I have no new remains to examine, as a result of our fortunate rescue of Mr. Laroche."

"Speaking of, Cam texted this morning. Tox screen indicates the guy was dosed with temazepam and possibly chloroformed as well."

Another bite of egg, another thoughtful chewing process. "Laroche's coffee was likely laced with the sedative. Where did he get it from?"

"Theatre department kitchen. Guy uses his own blend of organic roast and raw sugar by the spoonful. Cam thinks it's possible the filter was laced with the drug and brewed right into the pot."

"The killer probably thought the coffee would be sufficient, and had to resort to chloroform when it left Laroche drowsy, but conscious," Brennan surmised.

"Enough shop talk at home," Booth said, popping a strip of bacon into his mouth.

"Sorry."

Booth grinned. "It's fine. I started it. So you're going into the lab?"

She nodded. "I've got paperwork to catch up on, if nothing else. I might slip into Limbo for a bit."

They finished their breakfast in their usual manner: the morning paper divided between them (him Sports, her News). Finishing first, she carried her dishes to the kitchen for a quick wash. Before she could turn the faucet on, the baby monitor caught her ear. Christine's morning babble had begun.

"She's up," Booth said, smiling. "I'll grab her."

Brennan smiled to herself as she washed the plate and the frying pan. _He's such a good father_. A part of her felt sad at times, watching the two of them interact. She knew it pained him that he'd missed much of Parker's infancy and Rebecca's continual disregard for Booth in her life choices made her upset. A few weeks each year was hardly enough time for a father and son, no matter how beneficial her move was to her career. _There are more important things in life_. Strange words, coming from a woman who valued her career highly, but truthful.

"Hey, Mom! Look who's smiling and ready for breakfast!"

She grinned as Christine babbled happily, laughing as Booth tickled her stomach. "I'll get the strawberries and cereal."

Preparing the food quickly, she glanced at the clock. While she was in no rush, Booth most likely needed to meet with Hacker for an early briefing on their progress. She should be in charge of feeding today.

_Stop. Don't decide for Booth_.

Booth very much preferred to handle breakfasts, as he often arrived late for dinner. It was their time and Brennan encouraged it, particularly after the summer apart. Best not to create more emotional distress.

"Did you want to feed her or would you like me to?" she asked.

Glancing at the clock, he winced. "It's that late? Hmm... I'll start, you finish?"

"Sure."

Satisfied she'd made a wise decision, she cleared the rest of the dishes, chugging her coffee in the process. It was shaping up to be a three coffee morning, a rare and miserable sort of day. Worse, there would be no escaping to the coffee cart or the diner, not with Booth's stringent security demands. Her stubborn side wanted to point out that Broadsky had managed to claim a life inside of the lab and thus, they shouldn't mistakenly treat it as some sort of perfect refuge, but she knew it was pointless and possibly hurtful. Booth was a protector; this was nothing new.

"I'm going to shower." He kissed her cheek, surprising her. "She's all yours."

"Even when you're not present, she remains biologically ours," she murmured. "But I understand the metaphor."

Another kiss. "Love you."

She watched him ascend the stairs, as she always did, then hurried to Christine's side. She was hungry this morning: Booth had managed to get all of the cereal into her rather quickly.

"Strawberries!" she announced, offering a spoonful to her eager child.

"Mmmmmm-ma!" Christine shouted.

"Yes, Mama loves you."

If only everything could be as simple as moments like these.

* * *

Hodgins tapped his foot impatiently as the mass spec worked its magic on the paint recovered at the Laroche scene. His expectations were realistically low – chances were the paint was purchased from some big box store selling thousands of identically formulated cans – but he refused to rule it out as a useful clue. This Bard bastard was pissing him off at every turn and his patience had long worn thin.

A beeping signaled the completion of analysis and Hodgins gritted his teeth as the chemicals listed themselves off neatly. Nothing remarkable, as he'd suspected. He could run it against major manufacturers, but even the sheer number of surveillance footage hours would render the task pointless.

"Cam's not going to like this," he muttered, electronically relaying the report her way.

The fertilizer, however, seemed more promising. Loading that sample in for analysis, he tapped a few keys and began a search for the paint. He wouldn't go far with this line of inquiry – just identifying the manufacturer – but he might as well kill some time. After mulling between two close matches, the shade of red sealed the deal: Behr. The brand stocked at every Home Depot in the damn country.

Pulling up his database for fertilizers, he began narrowing the list down from his initial findings. Immediately, he sensed Potash Corporation of Saskatchewan was out, meaning a significant number of producers were eliminated. The residual minerals just weren't a match for the Canadian-sourced product. UK, maybe?

"Hey babe, any luck?"

Hodgins glanced up, smiling at the welcome distraction of his wife. "Nothing yet, unless there's a shortage of Home Depot locations near Morgan Ashford Academy."

"That's like not finding a Starbucks in a two block radius in New York." Spinning his chair towards her, Angela settled into his lap, resting her head on his shoulder. "I was hoping for better news. I feel caged in."

"I know the feeling," he agreed, his arms wrapping around her silk-adorned frame.

His gaze wandered outside of his office, where Cam had tripled security personnel. No one was able to access the lab premises now aside from the core staff and security, and only during standard business hours. Off-hours, authorization from a superior was mandatory. Outside, a cluster of four FBI agents kept constant watch on the comings and goings of the lab. While Jack appreciated the concern for their well-being, the inability to go to the Royal without an armed escort was one step too far.

_Then again, after Pelant, who knows what people are capable of_?

Jack swallowed hard. _This isn't Pelant's style._ Computers were his deal. Conspiracy. This was a psycho with a boner for old plays with older plots.

"Bets on when Bren will lose it on Booth?" Angela asked lightly, gesturing to the small army of security passing by.

"She'll be fed up by the end of the day," he guessed. "Even she needs a coffee break and the kitchen stuff never keeps her entirely happy."

"I think she'll lose it before work today. She's had a hard few days."

"Good call."

He was worried about Brennan. Things had seemed resolved with her father, but yesterday's confrontation had visibly shaken her up. Then again, considering how _together_ she'd seemed after a summer on the run, he figured this was the delayed version of Angela's "screaming in the middle of the night" hypothesis, one she'd voiced several times.

An alert tone sounded and Angela sat up. "That one of yours?"

"Yep. Should be our fertilizer, which I hope is a rare breed."

They both examined the results on screen, Angela's expression blank and Jack's expression one of triumph. _Just as I suspected_! With a renewed energy, he returned to his computer, tapping in a few variables.

"Is this good?"

"Very." His search results displayed and he quickly hit print, grinning. "The fertilizer is sourced from a UK company, GrowHow, previously owned by a company in Helsinki. The cost of importing is prohibitive compared to local producers."

"Meaning this is more of a special order," Angela concluded.

Handing her the results, he nodded. "As in, only a couple of stores within reasonable distance of the school or parkland stocking it. Think you can check on transactions and specific locations for me?"

"Definitely."

Angela pulled him in for a kiss and he surrendered happily. He was as stupid in love with her as ever and he wore that love as a badge of honour. He'd come too close to losing her in the past. Cam might not appreciate their open affection, but Jack had promised himself that he would never waste a moment with Angela again – and that included moments stolen between evidence analysis.

"You feeling defiant?" he asked playfully.

"What do you have in mind?"

He grinned. "I say we slip on over to the horticulture department, snake some of their superior coffee, and enjoy a make-out session in their seldom-used break room. Game?"

"Won't Cam notice our swipes?"

"Not if we take advantage of our secret way to the basement through the closet."

"No!" Angela's eyes widened. "They still haven't fixed that since the goon squad took us hostage?"

"They haven't added cameras to Limbo, either. Progress is slow beyond the lab walls. Shall we?"

Angela's gaze drifted over his shoulders. "In an hour?"

Jack glanced over and understood: Booth and Brennan had arrived, the two of them strangely silent. _Angie wins again_.

"You got it, Ange."

Report in hand, he watched as Angela accosted the couple, pushing her way into their silent dispute. Some might call it meddling, but Angela's intentions were always pure. _She'll help them fix it, like she always does_.

Across the lab, Brennan was grateful for Angela's promising news, courtesy of Hodgins' soil analysis. With only two distributors near the college, it would be fairly simple to track purchase records for the past few months. Hopefully, their killer had used a credit card or slipped up in some other way and things could return to normal.

Booth was protective. She knew and understood this – or so she thought. His stubborn refusal to allow her to drive into work with Christine by herself was infuriating. Ten minutes of needless back and forth bickering until finally, she'd relented, too mentally exhausted to bother articulating her position any further. The drive in had been silent, Brennan's face buried in a report she'd already reviewed to mask her need for reflection on the incident. In attempting to sort through her own turmoil of late, she'd had an epiphany: Booth's overprotective nature stemmed from more than the daily dangers of their jobs, more than his generous heart. Booth was, in a way, slipping back into patterns from his own family history. Just as he had worked to shelter Jared from chaos then, he strove to shelter their family now.

Everyone, it seemed, wore the truths of their history in their daily interactions.

It was an intriguing thought and also reassuring to her. She was normal. What she struggled with, Booth faced in his own way. The perfection in their corresponding imperfections spoke of a common ground and a hope for resolution.

"You'll let me know if anything turns up?" Booth asked.

Brennan pulled herself back into the present as Angela nodded. "I'm on it. Receipts, surveillance footage, anything I can get my hands on. When I know, you'll know."

"Thanks, Ange."

With a pointed look in her direction – the "Angela will make me talk to her later" look, as she knew it – her friend slipped into her office to begin her search. Booth remained beside her, his posture awkward.

"Booth, I'm sorry if I irritated you," she offered. "I know you have our best interests at heart."

"Then why do you always push back?" he asked quietly.

"Because we spent the summer with someone else dictating our every move, and before that, it was Broadsky. I'm frustrated with the situation and the lack of leads, not you."

Booth sighed and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "I'm sick of it, too."

"Are we okay? Or are we polite?" she asked.

A half-smile. "Should I fart to reassure you?"

Brennan groaned. "No! You're incredibly crass when you want to be."

"Seriously Bones, we're fine. On the way over, I connected it with the summer and realized how this must be for you."

"Okay. Good."

"Dr. Brennan?"

She glanced over Booth's shoulder and noted Fisher waiting for her attention. "What is it?"

Booth's arm fell away, his posture adjusting to that professional stance he generally maintained at work, most noticeably around the interns. _Likely to intimidate them_. Alpha male, through and through. Fisher approached them readily and she was reminded of a quality she admired in him: he didn't intimidate easily. It was an important trait to have, as she'd proven throughout her years at Booth's side.

"A thought... Dr. Saroyan gave me the latest quote this morning. _Hamlet_ again, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Of course. He's repeating a play."

"What if the quote is telling us that _Hamlet_ is the key to finding this guy? What if it's his motive?"

"You mean, this guy is like Hamlet?" Booth asked.

"Violet Richter had a date the night she disappeared," Brennan reminded them. "In the play, Ophelia goes crazy because Hamlet shuns her and kills her father. What if there was a similar shunning between Violet and the killer?"

Booth nodded enthusiastically. "So if we find the Hamlet –"

"You find your killer," Fisher concluded.

* * *

**_A little throwback to Proof in the Pudding... hee hee. _**

**_Fisher's Shakespeare knowledge may just be paying off for our team! But finding a Hamlet is easier than done when you're not among royalty in Denmark. Brennan's also working through her experiences as best she can. The case is distracting, but she's beginning to understand cause and effect with her emotions and thoughts. Hopefully Booth remains patient with her.  
_**

**_The Mixed Tape is off and running, with the first three chapters up and awaiting you. The M rating really only applies to a few chapters of the 25 or so planned, so it's not by any means a smutfest... Promise! Come swing by and tell me what you think!  
_**

**_'Tis the season of giving, so I'm told, so it would mean a lot to me if you'd review, especially the lurkers. No need to wax profound; just tell me you're here and enjoying yourself. I'm having a bit of a block and reader pressure can be very effective when my brain's resisting me. :) See you next Wednesday, when I'll be older but not wiser. Ha!  
_**


	14. Chapter 14

_**AN: Why, hello! It was so good to see so many new faces in the reviews, so to speak! I'm glad you're enjoying the story. I write for you!  
**_

_**I figured we needed a bit of a lighter chapter, so Sweets came out to help us play. Isn't that nice of Baby Duck?  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare.  
**_

* * *

"It would seem the animals have taken over the zoo," Sweets mused aloud.

Booth concurred: the Morgan Ashford theatre was a scene of chaos. Several students were congregated in the front row of seats, laughing and ignoring the pleas of a frantic young man with a clipboard. On stage, two paint-spattered women angrily gestured to a half-finished backdrop, waving their dirty brushes at each other. The one thing that was decidedly _not_ happening was the scheduled rehearsal for the upcoming production.

"Maybe Laroche is an ass for a reason," Booth said.

They made their way down the aisle towards the stage, studying the scene carefully. After some debate with Fisher and Angela, they'd decided that a second round of interrogations would be necessary to flush out their mystery "Hamlet" in the crowd. Sweets was adamant that the killer was someone connected with the Drama program, and Booth had to agree. It would take a theatre geek to keep all of this crap straight.

At least Bones had only put up a slight protest at Booth's decision to take the kid into the field. She concurred that the psychological profiles Fisher and Angela wanted for their analysis would be most efficiently compiled if the profiler himself conducted the interviews. Cam had helpfully mentioned a growing backlog of remains in Limbo and off she'd gone, gloves in hand. His partner hated being told where to go and what to do. _I'm going to owe her big time after this one_, Booth thought with a sigh.

The din grew louder and Sweets leaned over, nearly shouting in Booth's ear to be heard. "Where did you want to start?"

After a moment's consideration, Booth pointed to the Clipboard Guy. "Him. Maybe he's a Laroche lackey. Could know if he's pissed anyone off recently."

They made their approach towards him, Booth taking stock of the guy's body language. Anxiety, almost panic was plain on his face as he tried to be heard over the loud group of students. A fairly young guy himself – Booth figured him to be 25 or so – he spoke with a soft, passive tone. A follower, not a leader. His eyes darted towards Booth and he sighed, abandoning his speech and approaching them.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth," he replied, flashing his badge. "And this is my associate, Dr. Lance Sweets. We're investigating the abduction of Francis Laroche."

"Ben Bertram, assistant stage manager and, at the demand of the Dean, stand-in director. Not that anyone is necessarily willing to be directed today. The gossip mill's in overdrive after recent events." With a shake of his head, he added, "I know that the leads know their stuff already; they're very committed to their work. That doesn't mean the supporting roles know their cues and such, though."

"We were wondering if we could interview the cast and crew again," Sweets said casually. "Sometimes, we see things we don't realize are relevant. Shouldn't take too long."

"Oh, sure! Anything to help. Practice is a bust anyway. Did you want to use Francis' office?"

Booth nodded. "That would work. Could we speak with you first?"

"No problem. Follow me."

The backstage area was an obstacle course: opened cardboard boxes discarded; cans of paint; a rack of costumes along a wall. It occurred to Booth that it would be rather easy to hide in here, lying in wait. He had a vague memory of Violet Richter last being seen waiting outside the theatre. What if her assailant lured her in here?

Ben fumbled with an enormous key ring as he unlocked the office. Booth noted it was far tidier than the first time they'd used it for their interviews and wondered if the neurotic kid in front of them was also a clean freak.

"Have a seat," he invited them, settling in at the desk.

With a glance between them, he and Sweets reluctantly sunk into the couch. It placed them slightly below the stage manager, which Booth never cared for during an interview.

"How long have you been working here, Mr. Bertram?" Booth asked.

"Three years, not counting my time before graduation."

"You attended Morgan Ashford yourself?" Sweets asked.

Ben nodded. "Not as an actor – never been one for the spotlight. I took the technical programming for stage management and art direction. When the college offered me a permanent job, I couldn't say no."

"You like being here," Sweets gently prodded.

"It's alright." The kid shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Do either of you know anything about the theatre industry?"

Booth shook his head, while Sweets chimed in, "A little. I used to do summer stock."

"Really?" Booth asked.

The psychiatrist seemed exasperated by Booth's teasing grin. "Yes, Agent Booth. It was never a serious passion, but I enjoyed it. In any case, it's a difficult industry to break into and make a living at, for actors at least."

"Directors too," Ben corrected him. "Even steady work in set design is hard to come by, especially fresh out of college. It's not the most glamorous gig, but I've added three solid years to my portfolio by staying here. I've started reaching out now to London and New York, but this is my stable paycheck until opportunity knocks."

"Makes sense," Booth said. "So, if Francis Laroche has been teaching here for five years, you've known him –"

"His entire tenure," Ben interrupted. "Counting my studies, I've been here six years. He was one of my instructors. He recommended me for the position, actually."

"Would you say you know him well?" Sweets asked.

Ben's brow furrowed. "Professionally, sure. I know what he likes, what he expects, how he directs. We're not buddies or anything like that. We get along, but we're not grabbing beers after work, if you know what I mean."

Booth leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Alright Ben, between us: what was the deal with Violet Richter?"

The kid flushed. "Violet is – er, was incredibly talented. I don't want you to think she was undeserving of the roles she won here..."

"But?"

He sighed. "As far as I saw, nothing happened between them, but the way he watched her... It was a little too affectionate. Please don't tell him I said that!"

Booth nodded. "It's between us, don't worry."

"With Violet gone, who's likely to move to the top among the female actresses?" Sweets asked.

Ben grimaced. "Well, Laroche seems to favour Kimberly, but with her off still after what happened, I guess Marina Ainsley. Marina was cast as her understudy for Lady M. last week. In my mind, Kimberly should be the understudy."

Booth filed this away. Perhaps Laroche had a thing for his leading ladies?

"Is there anyone who has a problem with Laroche?" Booth asked.

"Well, Laroche can be demanding," Ben began. "Very anal retentive. Everything's gotta be exactly the way he sees it or he loses his temper. But that's theatre." He paused, frowning as he thought further. "Evan Mackenzie hated him, although he still kissed ass non-stop," Ben volunteered. "Um... there was a guy who graduated last year who had a serious hate-on for him. Julian Ellis."

Booth pulled his notepad from his pocket. "Any idea where he is now?"

"New York, I think? I didn't care much for him. I only know what circulates on the alumni Facebook page." Ben gestured to the door. "They probably won't stay much longer unless I get them working or you two force them to."

Booth rose to his feet. "Let's line 'em up, then."

The interviews went fast and furious, Booth allowing Sweets to take the lead and nitpick the psychological details he wanted. Aside from a lot of egotistical attitudes and stagehands excited about finally being able to put their own ideas to work, most of the information was useless from a case standpoint. Marina Ainsley and Raj Banwatt, however, had interesting tidbits to share.

"She was getting letters from a secret admirer," Marina explained to them. "In her locker, at first, then in the dressing room this summer."

"How many letters did she get?" Booth asked.

"Oh God, at least ten I know of. They were very sweet. Shy. Poetic." Marina smiled wistfully. "Violet was really surprised that someone would go to such trouble over her. I think she eventually asked him to meet her and confess his identity."

"When was this?"

Marina frowned. "Actually, it was right before she... Oh god, you don't think the admirer took her, do you?"

Booth glanced at Sweets. _Yup, he probably did_.

"It could be completely unrelated," Booth lied. "Just in case, do you know where Violet kept the letters?"

"No, sorry. Violet didn't socialize much outside of class. We mostly hung out in rehearsal spaces and at lunch." Marina's arms hugged herself. "I miss her."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sweets said gently. "If you happen to think of anything else, don't hesitate to call us."

_Poor girl_, Booth thought as she left. _Probably blaming herself for not cautioning Violet about the letter guy_. Speaking of, he'd grab a warrant for her apartment and go hunt for the letters tomorrow.

Raj Banwatt was their final interview, and although he was a smug asshole that immediately annoyed Booth, he did offer up confirmation of his suspicions.

"He's totally fucking Kimberly," the lithe actor blurted out.

"How do you know?" Booth asked. Many students had expressed suspicions of it, but no one had offered evidence.

"I saw them!" he replied.

"You saw Francis Laroche and Kimberly Demetrios having sex?" Sweets asked.

Raj smirked. "Well, not sex, but the way they were kissing, they were _definitely_ well acquainted, if you know what I mean."

"Where was this?" Booth asked.

"Right where you're sitting," Raj said with a chuckle.

Both men bolted to their feet with a shudder.

"Well, uh, thank you for that lovely visual," Booth grumbled.

"Hey man, don't worry: stains would show on a black couch. Looks clean from here," Raj quipped.

"Yeah, goodbye," Booth snapped, practically shoving him out the door.

"What now?" Sweets asked.

"We head to the Jeffersonian, where I can take a decontamination shower," Booth replied with disgust. "And then, I send my SUV in for a cleaning, since our clothes will be touching the seats for a good hour on the drive back."

Sweets cocked his head, raising an eyebrow. "Please."

"What?"

"Like you and Dr. Brennan have never gotten up to anything in the –"

"Shut the hell up now, Sweets, or you're walking back to Washington."

As they walked outside, Booth shook his head. _How'd the damn kid know_? And how would he explain needing another interior clean so quickly? _I'm blaming Hodgins. Bug slime. Cam covered in guts._ He'd speak gross at them and they'd never question it. And then? Burning this suit.

Pulling out onto the road, he dialed Bones on speakerphone to fill her in on their latest information. The phone rang three times before a distracted voice answered.

"Brennan."

"Hey Bones, it's me and Sweets. We're leaving Morgan Ashford now."

"Oh, give me a moment..." There was a rustling sound of some sort and soft footsteps and at last, she spoke again. "Sorry, cellular reception is substandard in Limbo today. Angela suggests the incoming storm is to blame."

Booth glanced out at the sky. "Sky's clear here."

"Well, you're driving into the front, so please take care while driving back," she replied, a hint of concern in her words. "Was your visit useful?"

"Yes, Dr. Brennan. I was able to gather the information Angela and I spoke about for the students and key staff," Sweets said.

"That's Psychology," she scoffed. Booth chuckled at her dismissive comment. "Did we learn anything about a potential suspect?"

"Well the stage manager mentioned a student who graduated who definitely didn't like Laroche. I'm betting it's a dead end, but we'll check out his alibi. Another student mentioned that Violet's date the night she disappeared had been writing her anonymous letters for weeks."

"Letters? You mean love letters?"

"Yeah Bones, why?"

"Well, Hamlet wrote love letters to Ophelia," she explained.

Sweets tapped his pen loudly on his legal pad. "That fits with Fisher's hypothesis."

"Does anyone know who the admirer was?" Brennan asked.

"No, but I figure we'll tell Caroline and get a warrant to clean out Violet's apartment," Booth replied. "There's something else interesting too: Laroche has been a little _too_ friendly with Kimberly Demetrios."

"Well, that's obvious. Only a friend would lie and tell her that she was a talented vocal performer. Her audition was terrible," his partner noted with clear disdain.

"No Bones, he's been having sex with her," Booth clarified.

"Oh!" She paused, then muttered, "Ew."

Booth fought the urge to laugh. At least she was in better spirits today.

"We should really speak with her again," Sweets said.

"Absolutely. She might connect us to Violet's secret admirer," Booth agreed.

"Or she could _be_ the secret admirer," Sweets countered.

"Kimberly's a lesbian?" Brennan asked.

"We're operating on a clear gender bias here," Sweets said. "Dr. Brennan, is there any reason a woman could not have committed these murders?"

After a moment's pause, she replied, "No. Given the sedation inherent in every act and the passive administration in particular with Laroche, a female assailant is plausible. The use of concrete and the precision required to avoid positional asphyxia might have been difficult given his size, but not impossible with an unconscious and pliant body."

"So you're saying Kimberly might not be a victim at all," Booth concluded.

"She had motive to want Violet gone. Perhaps Evan rekindled things with Violet. And maybe Laroche threatened to not come through for her in spite of her casting couch antics," Sweets summarized.

"Ugh, did you have to remind me of the damn couch?" Booth groaned.

"Kimberly Demetrios could be our killer, or an accomplice," Sweets insisted.

"Like a real life Lady Macbeth," Brennan mused aloud.

"_Something wicked this way comes_," Sweets quoted darkly.

* * *

**_You know, I have to tell you: the gender bias is so rampant on crime shows, Bones included. Always a default "he"... (And yes, as someone with a degree in Criminology, I know the statistics, but open minds should always be kept. You never know! ;) )  
_**

**_I'll see you next Wednesday with a steamcleaned Booth and more mystery goodness! If you need another story fix, there's always The Mixed Tape. I'm also trying to get you another one shot before Christmas over at The Bites Of The Partnership Pie (Vegas, strippers, good times). Stay tuned!  
_**


	15. Chapter 15

_**AN:Thank you to everyone who got into the gender and serial killing convo last chapter! It's been a while since I stretched my Criminology brain. I love a healthy debate, so always feel free to chime in!  
**_

_**If you celebrate any holidays this time of year, I hope they went well (and that you're not feeling too rough today!). This chapter's a little short, but we get to pick up the pace and also mock Sweets a little. That's always fun, isn't it? As a bonus, Hodgela time!  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare. I don't own Einstein's quote, nor do I own the quote from Karen Taylor's **__"Forensic Art and Illustration"_  


* * *

It was a very different Kimberly Demetrios that greeted Sweets in the interrogation room this time. Her hair neatly coiffed, her clothing tight and blatantly an attempt at manipulation through her sexual appeal, she was far removed from the shaking, stunned young woman who woke up beside her boyfriend in a tomb. She licked the rim of her coffee cup as he entered, her cherry red lips pursing as she sipped the steaming liquid carefully.

"Ms. Demetrios, I'm glad you could come down today," he began casually.

"Well, it's not like I have anything else to do right now. I'm still dealing with everything that's happened," she replied softly.

"_Bullshit_!" Booth hissed in the ear piece.

Sweets decided to play along for a bit. "Have you been seeing anyone to help you through this difficult time?"

"What, like a shrink? No. I see my family doctor and he keeps me too medicated to care. My acting coach suggested I channel it into my work." Kimberly rolled her eyes. "I'd much rather play a romantic lead, but dramas do win Oscar buzz. Only reason anyone gives a shit about Anne Hathaway is that alcoholic she played."

Sweets nodded, struggling to hold back his frustration. If Kimberly Demetrios was on a benzodiazepene of some kind, reading signs of anxiety would prove difficult. She could easily lie and be too medicated to show it.

"Kimberly, I'm sure you've heard about the abduction of Francis Laroche," he continued. "We're trying to put together as much information as we can. You'll answer a few questions for us, won't you?"

She shrugged. "Sure, but I've been out of school for over a week. I don't know how much I could tell you."

"How would you describe Francis Laroche?"

Kimberly's disdain was apparent, even though her eyes were decidedly glassy. "A self-important, grandiose jackass who thinks he's God's gift to theatre. You know, a typical director."

"Did you get along professionally at least?" Sweets probed.

Kimberly sighed deeply. "Look, I work hard. I deserve the roles I get and if people are jealous, they can take that up with Laroche. He does the casting."

"_She works hard on a couch_," Booth grumbled.

Sweets forced himself to keep a straight face. "So you'd say others are jealous of you?"

Kimberly leaned forward, practically placing her cleavage on the table as if serving it to Sweets. "Definitely. It's not my problem they don't understand the business."

"By that, you mean sleeping with your director?" Sweets countered.

The buxom blonde burst into loud laughter, rocking back in her chair. "Oh my God, is that why I'm here? That's so cute! Are you a virgin?"

"What? No!"

"_Yes_," Booth teased.

"No!" Sweets repeated.

Kimberly reached for her coffee, struggling to bring herself under control. "Look, everyone knows that unless you're a rare talent, you're not getting anywhere beyond Busty Murdered Co-ed #3 in this game unless you're willing to play by the casting couch rules. I played, although it never brought me as far as it should have. Violet was the rare talent, you see. But understudies go on and get seen."

"Did Evan Mackenzie know about this?"

"He encouraged it!" Kimberly smiled. "Evan got off on it. I think they call it 'cuckolding'. He knew it was just work, anyway – a way to boost my grades and improve my roles. He..." Her voice suddenly trailed off, her expression shifting to one of sadness. "Evan believed in me."

"_I believe that_" Booth said.

"Can you think of anyone who stood to gain from harm coming to Francis Laroche, Violet Richter and Evan Mackenzie?" Sweets asked quietly.

Kimberly shook her head. "No. I wish I did." Her eyes darkened as she continued. "I'd find the bastard myself."

Sweets stepped out of the room to confer with Booth. The agent was clearly frustrated and Sweets felt the same: they were back to nothing concrete.

"Do we let her go?"

Booth nodded. "Bones and I saw her audition. She needed to work a casting couch to get anywhere. I checked with her mother and she has an alibi for Laroche's abduction."

"So if she's involved, there's someone else."

"Yeah, and right now, there's just not enough to hold her for anything." Booth waved a file folder in his hand. "Where are we at with Fisher's Hamlet theory?"

"Angela's finishing up with entering the data this morning, and we should be able to start narrowing down. Hopefully, it gives us a lead."

"I hate Shakespeare," Booth grumbled, storming away.

Sweets was starting to hate him too.

* * *

For a moment, Hodgins felt like he'd stepped back in time.

Angela was typing furiously at her desk, which wasn't an uncommon sight at work. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, with large curly tendrils grazing her cheeks. This, too, was common on big cases. The mug of coffee beside her, which she reached for now with a sigh, was a staple fixture.

But this – him standing silently, mesmerized by her – was something he seldom did now. Having spent so long in silent affection, then pain after their parting, Hodgins made it a point to not waste a moment with his wife. Rushing in confidently to greet her most days, he'd forgotten how beautiful she was at work, lost in her whirling cloud of thoughts and ideas.

She was a living work of art and he was a damn lucky man to have her love.

Watching her all morning would never grow old, but the breakfast in his right hand would be cold and his gesture would be futile. She'd coded late into the afternoon yesterday, pulled away only by Cam's insistence they all leave before the thunderstorm worsened. The tension in her shoulders was visible from the doorway, but he'd felt her emotions radiating across the lab. She needed a break. A forced one.

"Hey babe," he called out softly.

Angela spun in her chair, smiling at him. "What's that?"

"The breakfast you should have had." He crossed the room and kissed her cheek gently, passing her the paper bag. "Security guys ran to the Royal for me."

"Jack..." She shook her head slightly as she reached inside. "You know me so well."

"I should hope so. I've only studied you for eight years," he teased.

He leaned against her desk as she opened the container and beamed at the chocolate chip pancakes. Angie loved to claim she ate healthy, loved to insist her preferred breakfast was eggs alongside fresh fruit, but her stress breakfasts were pastries and pancakes.

"Bite?" she asked, offering a forkful.

"I'm good, thanks." Gesturing to the screen, he asked, "How's it going?"

"Tediously," she replied, jamming a mouthful of pancake into her mouth.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted her recent painting of Paris and Hodgins remembered the other reason he'd come to check on her. Her growing discomfort and agitation with their work worried him. It wasn't a matter of wanting her to stay or fearing her departure; it was her unhappiness that scared him. They had love – stupid, mad, wonderful love – but it had blossomed within the realm of forensics. There were times – small, brief moments – where he feared that he had nothing to offer her without that shared common ground. It was stupid; they'd been just fine in Paris, far from the world of murder and crime. But who said anything about love was rational?

"I found a quote that reminded me of you," he said.

"It's not Shakespeare, is it?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

"Nope. I've had my fill for now." Pulling the paper from his pocket, he read it aloud. "'_It has been said that pen is mightier than the sword.. .. if used correctly, so is the pencil.'_"

"What's it from?"

"A book on forensic art," he replied. "It reminded me of you. Sure, your pencils are electronic now, but the principle is there. You have such power here, Angela. You know that, right?"

She hesitated a moment, her eyes locked on his. He felt his heart grind to a halt, caught in her headlights. He wanted her to understand that she was an artist, one with incredible opportunities to move people. It didn't mean she couldn't quit the Jeffersonian. He wanted her to be happy. But it seemed as if she'd lost the art in her work beneath the technological veneer.

"I plug in numbers, Hodgins. Run programs –"

"Programs that translate your artistic visions to the screen. Programs you created. There's vision, Ange. It's not just numbers. Reconstruction of faces from skeletal remains is a notoriously difficult task and you've made it faster without losing the compassion you pour into each one." His hand reached for her cheek, tracing her jawline. "You remain, as always, the heart of the lab. You haven't lost it."

"I haven't?" She bowed her head, frowning. "Sometimes, it feels lost beneath the anger and sadness here..."

"No, Angie, it's not lost." He pulled her to her feet, embracing her tightly. "You keep my heart connected to the work, when the scientist in me starts shutting down. And maybe that's not properly objective, but it sure as hell motivates me to find justice for people. You do that for all of us."

He felt her sigh against his shoulder, a faint flutter of air grazing his ear. "Art's always kept me human. Kept me from shutting the world out. But you're right. You are. Anger _is_ heart, too."

"Absolutely."

She pulled back slightly, toying absently with his hair. A shiver of happiness ran along his spine at her touch and he knew from her softened features that she was finding her peace again.

"I love helping people. I love that my art gives people closure and answers. But I need to explore human life again."

"What do you need to do that?"

Angela smiled. "There's an art course starting soon – once each week for ten weeks. It's not anything I haven't already done in one way or another, but it's focused on life."

"You should do it. I miss your art," he admitted.

"Well, Michael is a handful and this summer –"

"Was horrible," he interrupted. "You take care of us, Ange. It's time to take care of yourself."

"Have I told you how much I love you?"

He smiled. "Maybe once or twice, but I'm a man and bound to forget."

Her lips found his in a soft kiss and in it, he knew her love: honest, surprisingly shy, yet never uncertain. Unable to resist temptation, he pulled her hair loose, running his fingers through her soft curls. She giggled against his mouth, rewarding him with a more forceful kiss and her body pressed against his. Her hair was her weakness, one he frequently exploited.

"That help jog your memory?" she asked playfully.

"Definitely," he growled. "Take a break?"

"Jack, we can't - "

"Couch. Sit."

She complied with a smirk, raising an eyebrow as he brought her pancakes with him. Without hesitation, he fed her a mouthful, which she accepted with a goofy grin.

"I could get used to this," she murmured.

"Not me." At her puzzled look, he explained himself. "I don't ever want to get used to you, Ange. I never want to take this for granted. You're far too fascinating to stop exploring."

"I understand." She plucked the fork from his hand, feeding him in turn. "You know, your soft heart won me over. You were so angry and closed-off when we first met, but when you let me see _you_, I knew you were an incredible man. You've always let me see you."

Hodgins nodded. "Only you, babe. Only you've been worth the risk."

The fork changed hands again, Hodgins feeding her another speared piece of chocolate-laced pancake. Her head came to rest on his shoulder as she chewed thoughtfully.

"I have another quote for you," he told her.

"It's like old times, when you used to leave me notes and poems," she mused happily.

"Einstein, a classic: '_The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed_.'"

"I love it, Jack."

He smiled. "I knew you would."

"Now hurry up and feed me," she demanded coyly.

Hodgins laughed and happily complied. Her wish was his command, always.

* * *

Sweets joined the group in Angela's office that afternoon with a murmured apology, his eyes scanning the web of photos sprawling across the screen. He recognized several faces as Morgan Ashford students and staff, but nothing seemed... certain.

"We don't have enough information," Booth told him, his anger barely suppressed.

"But we have all of the relevant factors: age, social rank and position, motivations concerning ambition, key romantic relationships and friendships –"

"And it's still not enough," Angela interrupted. "By cross-referencing _Hamlet_ and the profiles, I can't nail down who our lead character is. We're lacking something important, although I have no clue what it is."

"Did you try other plays?" Cam asked.

"I tried _Macbeth, Titus Andronicus_ and _Romeo and Juliet_. No dice," she replied.

Brennan studied the faces on screen for a long moment, then gestured to the upper right corner. "Who's that?"

"Laroche's predecessor, Arthur Kozain," Sweets replied. "Laroche took over six years ago."

Her brow furrowed as she absently drew her finger through the air, following a pathway towards Laroche. "How did he get the job?"

"According to one of the stagehands, Ellie, Laroche pushed his way into it through the Dean. Made Kozain's productions look like a joke." Booth tapped his notepad absently. "Did you look the guy up, Sweets?"

Sweets nodded. "That was the call I had to take just now. Airtight alibi: he's in Europe, retired. Laroche's stunt killed his career."

Brennan's eyes widened. "Angela, input that information immediately."

"Whatcha thinking, Bones?" Booth asked as Angela tapped a few keys and ran the analysis a second time.

"If I'm right, it'll jump out at us," she replied vaguely.

Cam suddenly grew excited. "I remember this part of the play! It's definitely the key."

A series of beeps and a zoomed in web of five individuals appeared. Angela nodded, satisfied at the elimination of ten faces from the first run.

"Now, we're shaping up a _Hamlet_," Angela said. "Laroche is the Claudius."

"Big bad brother, poisoned the king and took the throne," Cam explained for Booth. "Laroche smack-talked Kozain to the Dean."

"Poisoned the work environment," Sweets enthused. "Of course!"

"So who would have been the typical heir for the position?" Brennan asked. "Who was cheated of the opportunity to ascend?"

"Well, normally, wouldn't you promote an assistant director?" Angela asked.

Silence blanketed the room as six pairs of eyes came to rest on the same image. With a light tap of her tablet, Angela brought the picture to the forefront.

"Ben Bertram," Cam said.

"Who's now running the show," Booth pointed out.

"Inheriting the kingdom," Hodgins chimed in. "What now?"

"What we always do," Brennan answered. "Follow the evidence, find the truth."

* * *

**_We may just have our killer... or do we? After all, there's no evidence, and someone else could be feeling slighted by our Claudius. What can our team do? Find out next week!  
_**

**_In the meantime, if you need a read, The Mixed Tape is well underway with an update coming soon, or you can read my original fiction! If you swing by Twitter (dillonac) TODAY, you may just find a way to score two novels for 99 cents! Cheers and Happy Boxing Day!  
_**


	16. Chapter 16

_**AN: Yikes! I've been distracted with life and The Mixed Tape. It's a short one, but we're nearing the finish line anyway, so you'll forgive me, right?  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare.  
**_

* * *

The lab had quickly become a flurry of activity in light of their theory. While Booth knew that Bones absolutely hated conjecture, Bertram at least had a motive for the attack on Laroche. His studies and status as an assistant director also fit the profile Sweets had pulled together, which left Booth confident they were on the right track.

Booth had tasked himself with a full background check on Bertram: criminal history, family, school records, car and property ownership – anything that could remotely be of use. His partner and Fisher were poring over the bodies once more, seeking any minute details they may have missed. Angela was tearing through camera footage from the three stores in the vicinity of Morgan Ashford that sold the fertilizer used on the water hemlock, while Hodgins and Cam sorted the paper receipts. All names on purchase records were being entered in a database as well: Angela figured she could run a comparison between Ashford's student and employee records and the receipts, regardless of Ben Bertram's guilt or innocence.

Benjamin Matthew Bertram, age 26. Born in Meriden, Connecticut and raised by both parents. Mom was an acting coach; Dad was an accountant. _Obviously followed in Mom's footsteps_. No priors, no dropped charges; just a slap on the wrist during high school for participating in a protest against President Bush. Never married, no known children, a silver 2005 Honda Civic in his name, bought used in 2008. Aside from graduating with honours, Bertram was unremarkable in every way.

_Perhaps that's his motivation_, Booth mused. _Being ignored. Being ordinary._

Hitting print on the guy's photo, Booth leaned back in the chair. He'd seemed so... _nice_. Nothing about the guy had tweaked his radar. Was he losing his touch? Or was this guy simply _that_ good?

_He's an actor. Sort of. _

A knocking on the door drew Booth's gaze to the right, where Cam stood, two mugs of coffee in hand.

"Thought you might need one as desperately as I do," she explained, handing him a mug.

"Thanks, Cam." Taking a large gulp, he sat the mug down. "How are the troops?"

"Hodgins has two paper cuts and is ready to snap. Angela's cursing out her monitors – take that however you like. Brennan and Mr. Fisher have nothing new on Violet Richter, but are reviewing Evan Mackenzie's remains right now. You?"

"This kid's the equivalent of store brand sandwich bread," Booth muttered. "Not even a speeding ticket! Worst I got is a warning from a protest he attended at age 16."

"We'll find something," Cam insisted, sipping her own coffee. "This guy is nothing compared to the people we've been up against."

"We don't even know if it actually is this guy."

Cam shrugged. "Then we work with the database Hodgins and I have been building and we find someone else. There's nothing more we can do. It's the one lead we've got."

Booth sighed. "I know. It's just... We don't need this right now."

"By we, I assume you mean Brennan?"

He nodded sadly. "I have no idea how this mess with Max is gonna play out. She tries to act fine, but she's tense. She tosses and turns at night, wakes up before the alarm – which is already set earlier than I'd like. She needs rest."

Cam mulled his words over, brow furrowed. "Think you can talk her into a few personal days?"

Booth rolled his eyes. "Bones? Not work? If anything, working steadies her. The ancient stuff, anyway."

"Okay... Then I'll ask Dr. Edison to distract her with one of his projects. He's currently working on a set of remains recovered from a cave in Guatemala. Or," she continued with a smirk, "You could dazzle her with that Booth charm and send Christine to Angela's for a weekend away."

That did sound amazing, he had to admit. While he had absolutely no regrets about the unusual course their relationship had taken once it began, they'd really had very little time for just the two of them without the complications of pregnancy and a young child that had only just begun to sleep through the night.

"Dazzle her, huh? Like one of those lame-ass whiny vampires Michelle loves?"

Cam chuckled. "Mock them all you want, but somehow, those movies are still better than all the published fanfiction masquerading as novels these days." She shook her head slowly. "It's not hard to Google BDSM. Research, people."

"Alright Cam, I don't need to hear about that," Booth protested.

"What? You used to tie me up," she teased.

He felt his cheeks flush red. "Yeah, and maybe now, I should try gagging you."

Cam grinned, seemingly amused by his embarrassment. "Just try, Seeley. You can't out-top a top."

"Have you seen my partner? Trust me, I can."

"Alright, enough shenanigans. Back to the receipts for me." Cam paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. "Maybe I'll even start Christmas shopping. Do you two need a paddle? A whip?"

"For the love of God, Cam!" Booth snapped.

"Maybe Angela and I can coordinate," she teased, walking away.

Booth pressed his eyes shut with a groan. Sometimes, he hated working with such a close friend. Today was one of those days.

* * *

"Anything, Mr. Fisher?"

"Nothing not already determined in our original examination of the remains," he replied, setting the skull down carefully.

Brennan frowned. "I didn't feel we'd missed anything, but I wanted to be certain."

They'd spent the last two hours going over the remains of Violet Richter and Evan Mackenzie, poring over every bone in search of some new, previously unnoticed evidence. Busy work, really: for all of her emotionality in recent days, she knew she could rely on Fisher to notice details and verify her findings. He'd grown significantly as a forensic anthropologist during his internship, which pleased her greatly. An eagerness to learn and continual improvement were all she required of her students. The rest, she could provide them with.

"Dr. Brennan?"

She glanced up from the phalanges of the right hand. "Yes?"

The intern seemed unsettled, somehow. The precise nature of his discomfort, she couldn't ascertain, but it was there on his face.

"I was wondering if I might be permitted to speak freely... and perhaps, boldly."

"You may speak in any manner you so desire, provided it's professional," she replied, confused.

Fisher shook his head quickly. "That's the trouble: this is personal. But, as the Bard himself once wrote, '_Boldness be my friend!_'"

_Cymbeline_. She knew that one: she'd quoted it often in the face of high school teachers intimidated by her intelligence and – the true crux of the matter – her refusal to not rebuke them for inaccuracies in their lectures.

"A personal matter? Concerning whom?"

"Myself. And you, Dr. Brennan. But I would really like to keep my internship, so if my observations might not be taken in the helpful spirit with which they would be offered, I'll remain silent."

She recalled the other day, when Fisher had brought her out of her sadness for a moment with a few lines of Shakespeare. It was as if he'd understood that the material meant more to her than simply being a work of fiction she enjoyed. He had anticipated a positive outcome. Yes, she could accept that he would mean well, no matter what he wished to speak about.

"Go ahead, Mr. Fisher."

The intern leaned against the wall, drawing a deep breath. "I know we've discussed my aspirations in detail, specifically the length of time I've sought a career in forensic anthropology."

She nodded. "Yes, I do recall an exchange about our shared interest in animal dissections as teens."

"Well, my mother has never been fond of my choice to study anthropology," he continued. "She wanted me to be a doctor – a brain surgeon, perhaps. She knew I was intelligent and in her family, a medical doctor was the ultimate achievement. Something to brag about to the cousins."

"It's an admirable field, without questions," she agreed. "Anthropologically speaking, you surely understand why we feel a need to compete within our social structures and position ourselves higher than our peers."

"I do. But I was also depressed as a teen. I've never understood why it began, but after my first hospitalization at age sixteen, my mother seemed ashamed of me. I wasn't living up to the 'Perfect Son' she demanded. I'd recover, come home, and her disappointment would weigh heavily on me. Like an unwanted crown."

He paused, and Brennan could only nod sadly. Words of reassurance were not her strength, but she knew what it was to be a disappointment in the eyes of others. It was a heavy burden.

"Last year, I finally had a breakthrough, Dr. Brennan. I realized that my cycle of happiness and sadness was a product of trying to play a role instead of being true to myself. My life is my own. I know I am entering a worthwhile profession, one I feel passionate about. I want to be the best – aside from yourself, of course," he added with a smirk.

"It's true: it would be difficult for any of my interns to surpass me, at least for many years. Experience brings lessons no books can teach. It's why our internships are highly coveted."

"I wouldn't have been satisfied with learning from anyone else," he told her. "If you want to be the best, you must surround yourself with the best."

Brennan smiled warmly. "Thank you, Mr. Fisher."

"I've diverged from my point, so let's get back to it. My mother had a script she wanted me to follow. Whenever I tried to follow it, I'd abandon my own and feel bad. Whenever I followed my own script, her disappointment also brought me down. I had to accept that the only role I am meant to play is Colin Fisher."

Edging forward, he continued. "We all do it, Dr. Brennan: Angela's another one of us, trying to be all things to all people. She's an artist with wanderlust working in a forensic lab, married and settled down. Surely, you've felt that she's nearing the end of her tenure here?"

Reluctantly, she nodded. She did have a suspicion that her best friend was increasingly unhappy with her work.

"But Angela remains, because she believes her role as Dr. Hodgins' wife necessitates her working here to make him happy. Her own happiness suffers as a result. And you..."

"I what, Mr. Fisher?"

Pulling off his gloves, he ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Dr. Brennan, you're falling into the same trap. You are the anthropologist. You are Agent Booth's life partner. You are a mother. You are a daughter. So many roles, with so many seeming characteristics and confining expectations. I don't presume to know you well, but from what I saw yesterday with your father and your troubled demeanor since returning from your time away, you're forgetting your truth."

She leaned forward, locking eyes with him. "Which is?"

"You don't have to be anyone more than Dr. Temperance Brennan. You are all of these things, but the only script you need to follow is your own. You spent years pursuing it, stuck to it even when the lines were perhaps a little off."

"I'm not sure I understand," she murmured.

"Your Dad already knows you have lingering doubts and fears and pain. You were never really fooling him, just yourself. Yet he stuck around." Fisher smiled, ever so slightly. "The only difference is you now know the score. Your choices are to play the role he wants you to play – the one you've been playing – or to live on your own terms."

"Dichotomies don't work well with human behaviour and emotion," she mused aloud.

"No, they don't," Fisher replied quietly.

Suddenly, everything seemed... _rational_. Her compartmentalization had served her well in the past, but it was based on a premise of operating within a dichotomy: be the loving daughter, or be the grown-up scientist who detested criminal behaviour. Her constructs were the problem, not her emotions. She needed to redefine her understanding of her relationships, particularly the one with her father.

_Why can't it be complex? Why can't it be both?_

She could never forgive, yet still forge a bond. She had the right to choose that state of being. In denying her heart, what good had ever come of it in life? She'd nearly lost Booth forever; she'd closed herself off to love entirely for so long.

"Dr. Brennan?"

Realizing she'd been silent for some time, she shook her head slightly. "I was contemplating your observations. I appreciate them, Mr. Fisher."

"So you're not going to fire me?"

She smiled. "Certainly not. I will, however, leave you to pack up the remains."

Fisher chuckled. "Fair enough."

"Being bold and speaking when others might wish us silent is often what this profession demands. For what it's worth, I think you'll be a fine forensic anthropologist."

The look of gratitude on her intern's face buoyed her spirits. She suspected he'd never heard such praise from his family. It was a shame.

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan."

Heading for her office, Brennan felt more certain of herself than she had in weeks. Her father was who he was. He had never, to her knowledge, compartmentalized his emotions. It was plain in the way he'd speak of criminal activity as if she weren't an FBI consultant with a commitment to justice.

She could therefore be who she was: still hurt, still wary, but also his little girl.

* * *

"Nothing?"

"Not a goddamn thing," Hodgins echoed, shoving aside a pile of purchase slips. "No records for the fertilizer, nothing on cameras."

"Did those records include orders shipped to home?"

"There's one online-only retailer we're waiting on full records for," Angela replied. "But they already searched for Ben Bertram for me over the phone."

Booth grimaced. "So what, it's another dead end?"

"I hate to say it, but it very well could be," Cam said.

"He lines up far too well with being our Hamlet," Fisher countered.

"Well that's not going to get me a warrant, Fisher," Booth snapped.

"Booth, calm down." Brennan's hand firmly squeezed his arm. "There has to be something. We just haven't located the missing pieces yet."

"Maybe you could question Violet's family and friends again?" Cam suggested. "See if Ben was her secret admirer?"

Booth sighed. "They didn't seem to know anything, but maybe her roommate's come across something while packing her things up."

"I have an idea."

Fisher had their attention now. Whether they would go for it, he had no idea. But if nothing else, he knew Dr. Brennan would at least give him serious consideration.

"All ears," Angela said.

"In _Hamlet_, our protagonist baits out his uncle into revealing his guilt," he explained. "Like Ben, Claudius is cool and collected. He plays at being the concerned uncle who just happens to have married the kid's mother. Our killer sent us a message anonymously, trying to bait out behaviour."

"While we're on the subject, did we find anything of use on that?" Booth asked.

"Nada," Cam replied. "Go on, Fisher."

The intern grinned. "I say we send an anonymous message that will reveal his guilt or innocence – provoke him, if you will. A quote that he'll understand: '_The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King_'."

Brennan nodded. "Very wise choice of quote."

"I like it," Cam chimed in. "We'd have to keep a close eye on him, though. We can't risk him going on a murderous rampage in fear."

"We could have an agent deliver it in a courier uniform," Booth added. "Just in case he snaps."

"And if he's innocent, he'll just be confused or even terrified he's a target," Hodgins said.

With a smirk, Booth patted the intern on the shoulder.

"I say it's game on."

* * *

**_Fisher has a plan - but will it work? Is Ben even the killer, or is it a clever set-up?  
_**

**_Please let me know what you think about our suspect and Brennan's insights! If Ben's guilty, what do you think Fisher's idea will do to him?  
_**

**_(Shh! The Mixed Tape readers, a special hint for this week's posting to come: A Night At The Bones Museum. *wink*)  
_**


	17. Chapter 17

_**AN: For those not following The Mixed Tape, allow me to apologize. After battling weeks of illness and family emergencies, it took a while to get my mind back into the place of writing this story. It's more demanding than my one-shot driven works and although I tried to write this last week, it was just pure garbage without flow.  
**_

_**But we're back baby! *wink* Previously on The Bard In The Bodycount: the team has sent a mystery quote to Ben Bertram, their suspected Hamlet and killer, to try and bait him into revealing his guilt. Fisher has Brennan putting her emotional affairs in order because he's a secret sweetheart, Angela and Hodgins are handling her discomfort with her work, and Booth still passionately hates Shakespeare. Ready?  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare. Tons of quotes from the Bard coming atcha, which are of course not mine and belong to Hamlet and Macbeth.  
**_

* * *

Booth tapped his pen absently against the table as he awaited Sweets and Francis Laroche. The director was out of hospital, a cracked rib the only real damage sustained during his abduction and burial. Sweets and Cam had both expressed a feeling of awe with regard to the killer's skill in burying the man, partially encasing him in concrete and leaving him to die. The fact the concrete hadn't killed him was impressive on its own. To that end, Booth had pursued Ben Bertram's history for any prior work in construction trades, but found nothing.

Nothing was the watchword, it seemed.

Their message was delivered the day prior by an undercover officer in UPS garb. Bertram had taken the envelope inside the theatre and had emerged after the scheduled rehearsals cool as a cucumber. Booth had been advised that their prime suspect was coaching a group of undergrads through vocals for a musical the following term for the entire day without so much as a flinch. It was as if the message were a grocery list, a piece of junk mail.

Of course, that only made him appear more guilty in Booth's eyes, but Caroline wasn't having it. No warrant was possible. Not yet, anyway. With any luck, the man entering now with the shrink would feed them something of use.

"Mr. Laroche, we appreciate you coming down today," Booth began, extending a hand across the table.

The director shook it with an apprehensive look, eyeing the agent warily. "Well, it seemed like the wisest course of action, given that a madman is on the loose. Have you found him?"

"No, we haven't," Booth replied. "We do have some people of interest, but for now, we were hoping to gain some insight into the program from you. You've been teaching for five years?"

"Yes, I've been the director of student productions and an instructor for the senior grades for that time."

"You took over from Arthur Kozain, is that correct?" Sweets asked.

Laroche snorted. "Took over? More like spared the Academy further embarrassment! The man was a terrible director. He dallied with modern material, which is all fine and well unless your choices are off-putting to alumni and poorly staged. I brought us back to the classics and thereby restored Morgan Ashford to its former prestige."

Booth bit back the urge to call the man out on his ego. "Some might suggest that you forced your way into your position Mr. Laroche."

"Jealousy, of course. It runs rampant in the arts. You don't think Kozain had anything to do with this, do you?"

"No, his alibi is airtight," Sweets assured him. "Is there anyone else who might be jealous of your work?"

Laroche pondered this a moment. "Most of the students studying to direct and work backstage have their sights set on Broadway or the West End overseas."

"What about the assistant director, Ben Bertram?" Booth asked, eager to zero in on their suspect.

"Ben?" Laroche laughed. "Ben doesn't have the backbone to lead and he knows it. He was born to be an assistant director and never complains. The most backlash I've had from him was my refusal to stage _Hamlet_ last spring with a modern feel like that wretched _Romeo + Juliet_ film years ago."

"_Hamlet_?" Booth and Sweets exchanged a look.

"Yes. The young man sulked for three days, but he quickly moved on and maintained his professionalism. He understands that my experience is vast and ultimately, my staging of the productions I choose will bring in the strongest reviews, benefiting the students and Ben in turn."

"Do you happen to know if Ben is seeing someone?" Sweets asked.

Laroche shook his head. "He's a quiet man. Too quiet. But perhaps he has a secret paramour. Have you conferred with his roommate?"

"He lives with someone?" Booth was puzzled by this. Ben's name was the only one on the lease where he lived.

"Yes, a recent graduate of the program has been staying with him for several months. Ben's saving up for a house and thought the extra income prudent. His name is Will... William Stiles. No relation to Julia, alas."

Booth jotted the name on an index card, his gut telling him this was the key to blowing this mess wide open. "Thank you, Mr. Laroche."

"Don't thank me. Find the bastard who buried me!" Laroche replied testily, rising slowly to his feet.

"Of course," Sweets placated him. "This case is our highest priority."

"As it should be," Laroche grumbled.

The director safely out of earshot, Booth turned to Sweets. "How did you put up with assholes like that for a hobby?"

"I guess I'm pretty zen. Well that, and I usually went home and played a few rounds of _Call of Duty_ picturing my director's face on a few bodies."

Booth's gaze narrowed. "Should I revoke your gun certification?"

"What? No! Adolescent anger, Agent Booth," Sweets replied quickly, his cheeks flushing.

_Sure, kid._ "Give Angela that name to run against the purchase records. I'm going to run a check on William Stiles."

"That was a red flag for you too, huh?"

Booth nodded grimly. "He's too cool, Sweets. Maybe it's because he's not using his own name."

* * *

"Whoa... Cam, look at this!"

Cam ducked her head inside Angela's office and glanced at the Angelatron's display. "Damn."

Ben Bertram and William Stiles looked uncomfortably alike. Aside from different eye colour, a slight scar on William's left cheek and a height disparity of three inches according to their driver's licences, they could easily be twins.

"And they're not related?" Cam asked.

"Booth says there's nothing to tie them together aside from their program of study," Angela replied. "With a resemblance like this, it would be easy for Ben to steal his ID."

"I'd say! Anything in the purchase records for William Stiles?"

"I'm running a scan right now. Shouldn't take long – wait, bingo!" Angela swiped at her tablet and smiled triumphantly at the invoice displayed. "Fertilizer ordered online three months ago by William Stiles. Interesting note: it was shipped to the campus at customer request."

"Definitely shady," Cam concurred. "Do we think the roommate's involved?"

"My gut says no, but it's not ruled out," Angela replied. "I'll email a copy of the invoice to Booth."

"I'll phone him and follow-up."

Cam's hand was on her cell before she reached the door, her thumb scrolling quickly to his name in her recent call log. She wasn't surprised when he answered on the first ring.

"_Booth_."

"Check your email. Looks like the roommate's not only a dead ringer for Ben, but also purchased a rather unusual fertilizer recently."

"_Smells like a warrant to me_," Booth replied.

"Be careful, Seeley," she cautioned. "This guy's cold and unpredictable. Wait for the cavalry."

"_I know how to do my job, Cam_," he bristled before ending the call.

Cam knew very well that Booth was one of the best agents the Bureau had. She also knew how impatient he could be when frustrated – which was why she pivoted and made her way straight to the office of one Temperance Brennan to inform her of the latest news. After all, Seeley's partner should be involved in any execution of a warrant, shouldn't she?

* * *

"I didn't do it!"

It was an endless refrain in the background as technicians – FBI and Jeffersonian – and cops sifted through the apartment of Ben Bertram and William Stiles. Booth gritted his teeth and tried to ignore Stiles' protests while studying his partner's examination of various sharp implements.

"Anything?"

"No, none of these are right and we've yet to locate any sort of straight razor," she replied, clearly annoyed. "I suspect that the killer would have disposed of the blade to avoid being detected. I can't imagine it being missed... Unless..."

"Unless what, Bones?"

She rose to her feet, wincing as Stiles again shouted out his innocence. "Unless it was a prop. One wonders though, how a prop missing for a month would go undetected."

"Hey, Agent Booth?"

Booth turned around and greeted Agent Perotta with a nod. "What do you have?"

"The roommate's story checks out. According to Chase, he was sent a pre-approved Visa six months ago, but the signature doesn't remotely match his other identification."

"What about the online order?"

"Two witnesses place him on a camping trip without internet access on the date it was placed," she replied.

"Which leads us back to Ben," Brennan concluded.

"Unless they're working together, in which case the card could be a set-up," Booth suggested.

"The killer is playing a role of his own: director," his partner replied. "Directors work alone, masters of their domain. Anthropologically speaking, I highly doubt this is the work of two killers. The drugging of victims falls in line with a single person struggling to achieve their goals. Two men easily could have overpowered Kimberly or even Francis Laroche, given his lacking physical strength."

Booth nodded. Sweets had said as much himself, but the profiler wasn't infallible. For the sake of Perotta's watchful gaze, he wanted to cross his t's and dot the i's aloud.

"Agreed. Has Hodgins found anything?"

"Soil samples!" came his reply, shouted from the back bedroom. "We can compare them to the soil collected near the river."

"Good. Bones, did you want to keep digging through these here or do you want them sent back to the Jeffersonian?"

After a moment's hesitation, she nodded. "Send them back. Mr. Fisher can study the kerf marks and properly ascertain whether any of these implements were involved in the death of Violet Richter. I would like to stop by the campus and examine their props to see if any of those implements might be the weapon."

"We'd need another warrant for that," Booth reminded her. "Although, in light of what we've found here, that wouldn't take long."

"Not if a stagehand permitted access," she replied. "If Ben knows we're here, he may destroy a relevant prop if he did indeed return it."

"College says he called out of work this morning," Perotta chimed in.

"Booth?"

He nodded. "Alright, Bones. Perotta, make sure everything's wrapped up tight. Take Stiles in for questioning. We shouldn't be too far behind."

"Got it."

It was a short drive to the campus, made shorter by Booth's speeding. He ran without the siren but employed his light to ensure the local cops didn't decide to yank them over to the curb.

_I've had enough of this case, enough of this killer. The next thing he's directing is a production of Jailhouse Rock_, Booth thought angrily.

"Bones, are you sure a prop would be a useful weapon? I mean, wouldn't it be dangerous to use an actual blade?"

"Typically, yes. But perhaps Ben modified a prop razor with a true blade. Even if he's switched the blade back out, we can ascertain if it would be the right style of handle and perhaps find blood evidence within to tie it to Violet Richter."

Booth nodded. "Yeah, that's worth a detour. I don't like that Bertram's AWOL. What if he's taken someone else?"

Brennan frowned. "Well, have we checked on his family? In the play, Hamlet murders Ophelia's father unintentionally. There's also the arranged deaths of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, his betrayers."

"How do you murder someone unintentionally?"

"Oh, he hears him eavesdropping behind a curtain and believes it to be his murderous uncle. He stabs through the curtain and is unhappy to see what's happened," Brennan explained.

"Mistaken identity... Oh shit!" Booth's hand flew to his phone as something clicked. "C'mon, Perotta..."

"Booth, what's wrong?"

"Do you remember a scar on his left cheek?"

"No... _Oh_!"

"She's not answering." Booth dialed Cam next, relieved when she picked up on the second ring. "Cam, is Perotta around? ...What about Stiles?" Yep, just as he thought. "Damn it. Thanks, Cam."

Booth turned sharply onto the campus road, shaking his head. "We need to make this quick. Stiles – or the guy who claimed he was Stiles – managed to escape."

"What? How?"

"Because Ben Bertram was wearing his clothes and shoe lifts, apparently. I didn't think anything of it since they're so alike. Damn it!" Booth struck the wheel angrily. "He managed to get out of his cuffs and escape on foot. They're searching the area now."

"Maybe you should leave me here then and return to help them," Brennan suggested.

"No."

"Booth – "

"I am _not_ leaving you alone with this guy out there, Bones. End of discussion. Let's go snag your props."

The campus was quiet for a weekday afternoon. Murder had a way of sending people into seclusion, hiding from the Boogeyman who'd suddenly come to life in their neighbourhood. The theatre was silent, the main entrance locked with a posted notice of class and rehearsal cancellations.

"What are the odds anyone is actually here?" he asked.

"Stagehands hardly need the cast around to construct their pieces. If anything, it would be far more peaceful to work today."

Booth nodded. "We'll try around back, see if anyone responds. I'm not letting this guy get off on a technicality. We'll wait for a warrant if we have to."

A single car was parked behind the theatre, perhaps indicating employees at work. Brennan knocked briskly at the door while Booth approached the vehicle, making note of the licence plate as a matter of routine. He was sickened by the thought of Ben Bertram running loose, but worse, he felt like an idiot for not having noticed that the man they'd believed to be William Stiles was their prime suspect.

_Where is William Stiles?_ Booth hoped that he wasn't another victim waiting to be found in a sick staged scene somewhere. He really didn't care to have more blood on his hands, although fate, it seemed, had different plans.

It happened so fast: a faint creaking drew his attention in time to watch his partner dragged inside the theatre, slumped unconscious. Booth charged the door and pulled at the knob frantically, to no avail.

"Bones! BONES!"

No reply, and no budging past the heavy steel doors. His heart leaped into his throat at the thought of Violet, of Evan and Francis, and all of the things a sick bastard could do to his partner, the woman he loved. He began circling the building in search of a window, a door to smash, _any way inside_, _any way to get to her_, and slammed his shoulder into a wooden door on the east side. The wood was weakened by years of wear and he immediately felt it begin to give, although it wasn't fast enough.

_What am I doing? Fuck this!_ Booth pulled his gun, took aim and shot the lock off with a grunt of satisfaction.

He forced himself to enter cautiously, his sniper training overriding his need to see _her_, to hold _her_. This guy had seen them coming, had timed his attack with precision, separating them with ease. He'd caught Bones off-guard and somehow rendered her unconscious. This was his domain and he had the advantage.

He was in a service corridor, Booth determined quickly. The pipes running overhead misted the room with steam and several doors were marked with electrical cautions. Weighing likely odds, he ventured in the direction of the theatre's rear entrance, hoping for a connecting door to the backstage area. He stepped carefully and quietly, avoiding debris and measuring the impact of his shoes upon the concrete floors and listened, always listened. He could hear faint movements, a shuffling or sliding of some sort, but no Bones. No cries for help.

_Hang on, baby. I'm coming for you. Just hang on_.

He tried an unmarked door, cursing it for being locked, then another without success. A third door seemed unlocked but stuck in the jamb, and Booth grimaced. He could slam it open, but by doing so, he'd lose all element of stealth. Heart won over soldier and he slammed through on the first go, much to his surprise. The door shut behind him and a buzzer sounded and it was then he knew he was just another fly sauntering into the spider's lair.

He'd done exactly what Bertram wanted. He was locked inside.

Booth wound his way around set pieces and various boxes of what appeared to be props of some sort, clinging to the shadows as best he could. His eyes darted wildly, seeking some flash of movement, a silhouette of a form, but it wasn't until he reached the side of the stage that he fully appreciated Bertram's end game.

"I suggest you drop the weapon, Agent Booth," Ben stated calmly.

Booth was inclined to play along as the assistant director came into view. The dagger pressed to Brennan's throat had already drawn a trickle of blood. No shot he took would spare her great harm; he'd easily sever her carotid before Booth squeezed off a single round. She was only somewhat aware of her precarious position, her eyes lazy with the effects of whatever means he'd employed to render her helpless.

Francis Laroche and the man Booth assumed to be the _real_ William Stiles, on the other hand, were both alert and terrified, although unable to speak through the duct tape across their mouths. Ben had strapped them to seats in the front row. A captive audience, literally.

"Unload the gun, clear the chamber, and kick the ammunition towards me," Ben instructed. "Do the same with the other gun."

"What other – "

"Do _not_ fuck with me," Ben growled. "I noticed its outline in your pants when you interrogated us that first time. Do it or I kill her."

Reluctantly, Booth complied, praying that Perotta or someone would trail Bertram to the college and come to their aid. "Why are you doing this, Ben?"

"Ah, yes. You don't know The Bard well. You do, don't you?" At this, he jerked Brennan by the hair, nodding her head by force. "All great plays must end, Agent Booth. Welcome to Act V of _Hamlet_."

Brennan moaned in pain, struggling against the bonds keeping her arms fixed to her sides. Booth kicked the ammo away as instructed, taking a small step forward.

"Yeah, I'm not exactly a Drama major, Ben. But even I know _Hamlet_ doesn't end well for the main character."

"_Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes_?"

Booth groaned. "I hate Shakespeare. Speak proper English!"

"Actually Booth, he _is – _"

"Stay out of this, Bones," he snapped, stepping forward. "Let her go, Ben."

His eyes flickered with rage as he gestured towards a rack of fencing gear. "_Give us the foils. Come on._"

"He wants you to fence, Booth. Like the end of _Hamlet_," Brennan mumbled.

"Alright, Ben: you put my partner down safely over there, away from your damn knife, and I'll fence or whatever you want."

Booth didn't have the faintest clue how to fence, aside from classic movies and those _Pirates Of The Caribbean _flicks Parker loved. He still figured he had a better shot than the somewhat scrawny kid, especially if he could knock his weapon free and tackle him. And maybe, just maybe, he could kick his pocket knife to Bones to free herself.

Ben kicked the ammo offstage into the darkness of the seats and released his hostage, allowing her body to slump in the red cushioned chair. Her position was awkward, given her restraints, but she was away from the dagger and that was all that mattered for the moment. The psycho director advanced to the collection of blades, pulling a rapier from the set and beckoning Booth forward.

"_I'll be your foil, Laertes: in mine ignorance, your skill shall, like a star i' the darkest night stick fiery off indeed._"

Somewhere, Booth's grade eleven English teacher was laughing maniacally. He quickly pulled a rapier and dagger from the set, backing away quickly. Now, how the hell had Johnny Depp done this?

"Booth, be careful! The ends are exposed!" Brennan called out, struggling against her bonds.

"Of course they're exposed, Bones!"

"No, in the play they were supposed to be covered, but – "

A strike to her head made Booth very angry. "Tut, tut! You'll spoil the ending, Dr. Brennan!"

"You son of a – "

Booth charged at Ben, which proved a terrible idea. Immediately, the crazed man came at him with a flurry of motion, quickly nicking Booth's jacket, although luckily not piercing the skin.

"_A hit! A very palpable hit!_"

"I actually know that one," Booth muttered, dodging and lashing out with his blade.

"_Capo Ferro_!" Brennan called out.

"Cap a ferret?!" Booth shouted, leaping back and thrusting forward. "Go home Bones, you're drunk!"

"I don't know what that means!"

Further clashing of swords ensued, Booth taking the defensive and driving away Ben's attacks while attempting to discern a pattern in his swordplay. Ben was at ease with the blade, a very bad omen for Booth. He had to figure him out fast, disarm him and take him down.

"He's using _Agrippa_!" Brennan shouted.

"Not helping!" Booth snapped, leaping down into the theatre aisle on the retreat.

Another clash and Booth struck out, slapping Ben's upper arm with his blade.

"_A touch, a touch, I do confess_," Ben lamented.

In the confusion, Booth had managed to drop his dagger at his partner's feet. Her eyes widened in understanding as Booth continued to edge backwards, pulling Ben down the aisle in a flurry of steel and clattering blades. He was picking up on techniques, anticipating Ben's lunging thrusts and counterstriking by viewing his rapier as an extension of his arm.

Ben sneered, beckoning Booth into offense. "_I pray you, pass with your best violence; I am afeard you make a wanton of me. _"

"Look pal, I've had enough of the goddamn Shakespeare!"

And with that, Booth leaped onto the nearest seat, seizing higher ground and lashing out at his opponent. He scarcely missed his cheek, but it certainly drove Bertram backwards to rethink his strategy. In the moment's breath he'd purchased, Booth glanced over at Bones, who'd managed to nearly saw through the tape binding her arms. _Buy her just a few more minutes, Booth. Almost there_.

Booth wasn't an idiot; he knew she was carrying a small pistol. She'd wordlessly been armed in the field ever since her return and Booth pretended not to notice.

Another clash of swords, another flurry and a near-miss – this time, Booth's face barely escaped damage. Surging with adrenaline, he moved forward row by row, maintaining his lofty stance as he slashed and lunged at Bertram, who only grinned wider. It disturbed him deeply to see the _glee_ in the other man's eyes. Was this a game to him?

_Of course it is. All the world's a stage and all that crap_!

The muffled cries of Francis and Stiles were growing louder as their combat ground edged towards them. Booth wanted to tell them to shut up, but Bertram suddenly slipped, falling to one hand. Seeing his chance, Booth lunged towards his arm, looking to destroy a few nerves and cast the man's weapon aside.

"Wait Booth, no! It's what he wants!"

He hesitated briefly, retreating as his blade barely missed Bertram's throat. The idiot had thrown himself in the line of fire! What was this, an Elizabethan suicide-by-cop? In his confusion, Booth found himself disarmed by Ben, backing away as the killer stalked him with twin rapiers.

"It's poisoned," Brennan explained in a panic, tugging free of her bonds. "Your sword! In the play, it's poisoned!"

And now, Booth didn't have a weapon, let alone a clue which was his and thereby deadly at first slice.

"I'm not going to kill you, Ben," Booth said calmly, hoping to break the fantasy scene underway. "I'm not your... your – "

"Laertes," Brennan supplied, freeing her left arm at last.

"Laertes, right. It's not going to end in the bloodbath you want."

"Of course it is. I have my usurper King awaiting his fate, my rival doomed, and a Queen to perish through the mistakes of others," Ben replied coldly. "And there lies my best friend to tell my story," he continued, glancing at William. "I've trip-wired all entrances to keep intruders at bay. The show must go on, Agent Booth. It's all I have left."

A lunge and Booth dodged the blade, scanning for a weapon, a shield of some kind. Bones was sawing away at her ankles and it was then he realized that she must be employing an ankle holster – and her gun was pinned to her flesh beneath the tape. Another attack, dodged by ducking behind a chair and springing up to jump rows. _Head forward. Head for the stage_. He could use the sets as defense if need be. He just had to keep moving.

Both swords flew at him, left and right and Booth began to pray, dropping and somersaulting backwards several feet. Ben only laughed, his assault intensifying while Booth scrambled wildly. In that moment, he knew this was all going to hell, that he wasn't coming out alive this time.

"I love you, Temperance," he said, ducking another stab at his chest. It was all he could say.

The sound of a gunshot stunned him, his jaw falling open as a second shot was fired and Ben Bertram fell to the ground, clutching his kneecaps. Booth glanced to his left and felt relief seeping through his veins.

"I love you too, Booth," his partner replied warmly, her gun trained on Ben's wailing form.

He moved to her side, taking the gun and pulling her against him with his free arm, his lips pressed lightly to the top of her head. Beneath the duct tape, Booth was pretty sure Francis and Stiles cheered.

* * *

**_Damn! That was hellish to write. What did you think? There's a wonderful box just down there that would love to transmit your review to me and encourage me to write the final chapter or two (not sure yet). Anything you want to see in the wind-down? More Fisher? Max? Hell, Parker? Hey, my fic could have more Parker than the entire season eight thus far! Cool! :D  
_**

**_For The Mixed Tape readers, a hint for next Sunday: The Checkerbox. Speaking of The Mixed Tape, please come read if you're not already. I'm rather happy with my series of one-shots about B&B. Flirting, fluff, smut, angst... it's all there.  
_**

**_Until next week!  
_**


	18. Chapter 18

_**AN: A day late and short, but I wanted to get this out to you. I promise the final chapter will be long and deliver a nice, fitting conclusion for this story.  
**_

_**Thank you for so many awesome reviews! My new job is killing me slowly, but I have every intention of replying to as many as possible (probably this weekend). I read every one and they make me grin like an idiot.  
**_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare. Dialogue is borrowed from Stargazer In A Puddle and is for context; no infringement intended.  
**_

* * *

"The big file of police tricks is unnecessary," Ben Bertram stated calmly. "I've had enough theatrics in my life."

Booth took the seat across from the young man, who somehow seemed child-like in his reclined posture and calm repose, the shackles binding him to the gurney aside. He shuddered slightly, knowing from years of experience that the ability to feign innocence and decency was the most powerful weapon a killer could possess. He had no doubt that had they not taken him down, he would have continued to kill.

Thanks to Bones, Ben Bertram couldn't walk, let alone run now. He would be out of commission for months. It was the least he deserved.

Setting aside the case file, Booth leaned forward in his chair. "So you plan to confess then?"

"'_Confess yourself to heaven: Repent what's past; avoid what is to come._' The Bard is wise, Agent Booth. His truths are universal." He tugged at his restraints absently. "It's difficult to write a confession while bound. Aren't my plastered legs enough for you to feel secure?"

"Nope." Booth pulled a tape recorder from his pocket, flashing the light indicating it was recording. "Talk away, Ben. Tell me why you did it. Laroche, I kinda get. He took the job you'd expected to have one day and he's an egocentric controlling jerk. Murder's still not right, but I see the motive. Maybe Evan was an annoying shit. Maybe you grew tired of stains on the casting couch..." Reaching into the file, he removed a picture of Violet Richter's remains. "But this? Killing the woman you wrote love letters to? That is what baffles me."

Ben winced, averting his eyes from the image. "I'll confess, just put that away – "

"Oh, does this bother you?" Booth asked sarcastically, rising to his feet. "Does the thought of her body being consumed by insects make your stomach turn?"

"_Please_, you already have what you want. I killed them. I tried to kill Laroche. Just – "

Booth seized him by his unruly hair, forcing the image in front of his eyes. "This isn't love, Ben. I know what love is. You live for the one you love. You miss them even when apart for a few minutes. You wake up thinking of her, fall asleep feeling grateful to have her. _You'd die for her._"

"She wasn't supposed to die!" Ben screamed, bursting into tears. "I swear she wasn't. I loved her!"

"Then why'd you drive her to slashing her own wrists, huh? Why'd you keep her prisoner for weeks? Why'd you bash her head in?"

"I just wanted her to love me! The letters, she seemed to... I thought we had a chance. But when she saw it was _me_, I wasn't good enough! I was taking advantage of her," he spat angrily. "She compared me to _him_. My love had nothing to do with the theatre, nothing!"

"So you thought you'd make her love you?" Booth asked.

"Yes! No! I don't know..." Ben's eyes drifted to the window. "I just wanted her to listen to me... I don't know what happened... The chains... Something changed in her and I knew I couldn't let her go."

Booth nodded sadly. "You see Ben, if you'd actually bothered to know Violet Richter, you would know she was abused by her birth parents. They locked her up at night in a small closet. To her, you were just another bastard who considered her property."

Ben's eyes widened. "No... No, you're lying!"

"Wish I was, jackass. You psychologically tortured her. Flowers say it better, pal."

"I didn't... I didn't know. And when she found that blade in the storage passageway... I bandaged the wounds. I undid her wrist binds. But I couldn't let her be seen like that. No one would understand. I had no choice. Violet was gone and this... _animal_ had taken her place."

"Animal? Is that what she was to you?" Booth shook his head in disgust. "And what, the others were animals too?"

Ben bowed his head. "I had nothing to lose after Violet. Nothing to fight for. So I just... embraced the tragedy. It was the role I was born to play. You can call it madness or evil, but I was simply running lines. You began running your own when your wife was in danger."

"Yeah? Well, here's a line that sums up what my wife and I think of your sob story, Bertram: '_It is a tale/Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury/Signifying nothing.'_"

And with that final proclamation, courtesy of Fisher, Booth left the hospital room and thrust the file into Caroline Julian's hands, along with the tape recorder.

"Sweets can get the details, although he's nailed to the wall. The Jeffersonian built you a hell of a case."

"Of course they did, _Cher_. Soil samples, footprints, blood evidence on props, DNA evidence, attacking a Federal Agent and his beautiful partner... He's all mine. All the same, I do love me a nice confession." Caroline glanced through the door, shaking her head. "So, what aren't you telling me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your _wife_?" Caroline clarified, a twinkle in her eye.

Booth froze. Yeah, he had gone with Bertram's choice of words, without a single thought. Maybe they weren't married; maybe they never would be. He was fine with it. But in his heart and in every sense of the word that mattered, Temperance was his wife.

"We didn't elope, Caroline. I just went with his word choice. Please, don't tell Bones."

She smirked. "As long as you promise to invite me if you two _do_ decide to tie a legal knot – "

"Done!"

"_And_ you must name any future children after me," she added firmly.

"I'm pretty sure two's enough, but I will keep it in mind. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've kept her waiting far too long."

Booth rushed down the corridor, seeking escape from the prosecutor's stare. He was damn lucky his partner hadn't heard that interrogation, or else he'd be subject to a long lecture about marriage and ownership and some tribe he knew nothing about. Luckily for him, he'd talked the doctors into observing her for signs of concussion after the slam Bertram had given her head.

Not so luckily for him, she was mighty pissed about being kept in the hospital for longer than an hour.

"This is ridiculous! You will be with me at home and I will be perfectly safe under your observation, never mind my own knowledge about trauma to the skull and its effects on the cerebral cortex," she snapped, arms folded over her chest.

"Alright, Bones. I'll ask them to sign you out." He kissed her cheek and grinned to distract her. "By the way, nice shooting, Tex! Bertram's in a world of hurt."

"Tex? Perhaps it's you who has the brain injury, not me," she snapped.

"Aw c'mon Bones, lighten up, will ya? I almost lost you today."

At this, her face fell into a look of deep sadness. "I almost lost you," she whispered, her eyes shimmering with tears.

Booth pulled her into an embrace, clutching her head to his chest. "Shh, we're fine, baby. We're fine. We're a damn good team, you and I."

"But someday..."

"Someday's a long time from now, alright Bones?" Tilting her chin upwards, he said, "We fought too hard and long to build our life together. It's sturdy. No one's taking it from us."

Her lips pressed against his lightly and Booth lost himself in the warmth of the kiss, memorizing it like he had so many before. Each and every one was a gift from God, a blessing. It was also a vow exchanged between them: _I love you, I need you, always_.

Who needed a piece of paper and a priest?

* * *

_24 Hours Later_

"I understand my anger at my father, Booth."

He'd come home from the office late, having completed all of the paperwork for the Bertram file, including the documents claiming the gun his partner had fired had been his, that he'd secretly tossed it to her during the duel. Hacker wasn't asking questions and Booth wasn't offering any answers. The house was quiet, save an unfamiliar female voice that quickly cut off as he shut the front door. Brennan had greeted him there, dressed in an old tank top he remembered well from years ago during the infamous lab lockdown.

"You understand it?" he echoed, prompting her to continue.

"Let me show you."

He followed her to the living room, where she promptly picked up the remote and hit play. A slightly grainy image came into focus, one of a dark-haired woman, a pale beauty. She was seated outside somewhere – a park, perhaps.

"_Hi, Temperance. It's Mom._"

Booth's eyes widened._ Holy shit_... _How?_

The video continued. "_I don't know when or if you'll ever see this. I hope to put it in your hands myself, see you again with my own eyes, but this is a hard, hard world. Your father and I left you and Russ to save your lives. People would have killed you to get us. But that's not what this is about_. _Today is your sixteenth birthday_..."

Brennan's frame shuddered slightly and Booth pulled her against him, holding her tightly. He had a vague memory of her father giving her some message, many years ago. He'd had no idea that the message was a recording.

"_I'm so sorry not to be there to tell you all the things that a mother should tell her daughter when she turns sixteen, and sorry not to give you this._"

The ring. Her mother's ring, the one she wore faithfully.

"_It's an heirloom from my side of the family, and starting today, it's yours. I don't know how long it will take me to get it to you, but I promise you I will_."

"And she did," Brennan whispered. "She did."

"_You're going to hear a lot of things about your parents, especially about your father._"

Booth understood that this was the crux of her decision to show him this video. She had heard plenty about Max Keenan, enough to loathe him in spite of the devoted love of a daughter robbed of her family.

"_He is a good man. It was my insistence to leave you kids. Max would have kept us together, fought until the end.__I'm not sure he'll ever forgive me for that. So please, Temperance...I need you to forgive me._"

Booth was floored. She'd known, all this time, that Max had been forced to leave her behind? That his love for his wife had propelled him to go against his instincts? _It all makes sense_, Booth realized. _Letting himself be arrested to prove he wouldn't leave again. His devotion. His willingness to take her love with her mistrust when Max Keenan was a man known for doing exactly what he wanted, the will of others be damned._ What he was only beginning to understand was why her rage persisted and had finally exploded in recent weeks.

"_And if you can't forgive me, I beg you honey, forgive your father, because he is a very good man_," Christine Brennan continued. "_Remember this: you were cherished in this world. Adored. What I did to you may have been wrong, but I did it out of love._"

She pressed the stop button on the remote, burying her face against his chest with a single, loud sob. Booth could do nothing but hold tighter, knowing she would find the words when she was ready. His heart told him what she was only beginning to appreciate.

"How can you stay angry at the dead?" she quietly asked at last, pulling away. "I... I remember watching and wanting to let my father in, but I kept thinking, 'No one could make him leave, not even her.' No one makes my father do things. But I needed him in my life and when he let you arrest him, I thought it was a change, a gesture like you said. Today, I remembered this and dug out the tape and realized that it was easy to make him the villain. I could get angry at him. I could blame him. I could even believe he asked her to take responsibility for the choices they made."

"You made him the scapegoat," Booth said.

"My father did something wrong, Booth. He shouldn't have left us against his wishes. He should have found a way to ensure we were at least safe and healthy. But she chose to leave us. She deserves anger too, yet I have never felt it... Not until now."

"You were hit with a lot of emotions and confusion at once back then, Bones."

She nodded. "The trial and his disappearing and reappearing and Pelant... Even this past summer, he'd disappear for days and I'd wonder if he was coming back, if he was leaving me again. But he came back. He did. Maybe I'm angry he came back without her. Maybe I'm angry that I can't be angry with her, that I can't tell her about the horrible things that happened to me because of her decision..."

Booth knew. He'd seen the burn marks on her thigh from one foster parent, had seen her weep over the pair that thought locking children in the trunk of a car was a reasonable punishment. She had finally admitted to him a year prior, while arranging for Hodgins and Angela to have custody of Christine should something happen to both of them, that she'd lied years ago. No grandfather had come to get her out of the system. She'd never known her grandparents. Temperance Brennan had been starved, beaten, abused and mistreated until she aged out of the system and held down two minimum-wage jobs to pay rent for the seven months before her full scholarship kicked in. She'd never purchased a brand new article of clothing until she turned twenty.

She had every reason to be furious, to be hurt beyond belief. It was why he'd taken her side over Max in a heartbeat, without any of the facts.

"Motherhood changed me," she continued. "I mean, aside from the obvious physical changes to my pelvic structure, lactation and weight gain. I began to consider this summer whether I could have left Christine with you and realized I could have never done it. I would have chosen incarceration over it. It made me angrier than I've ever been with my father, because we proved that taking a child on the run was possible. But tonight, I realized that the word 'mother' was the key."

Booth nodded. "Look Bones, you've every right to be pissed at your parents. And you got one thing right: you _are_ your father's daughter. You're a fighter. You wanted to keep your child with you. What you _aren't_ is your mother's daughter."

"I am, though. In the good ways, I think I am. I love Christine, cherish her. I try to be a good mother, one who praises her and gives her everything possible. But you're correct: I never would have abandoned my children."

"So, what happens now?" Booth asked gently.

With a deep breath, she reached for the phone on the table. "I call my father."

* * *

**_From the beginning of this story, I've had the video from Christine Brennan in mind... Wondering about how much she'd taken to heart, wondering why she'd never fully forgiven Max... I really feel like the show kinda threw this out to tie up the plot of Stargazer and forgot it (although I suppose we may finally see some continuity from this plot point next Monday)._**

**_Either way, we're going to tidy up things with Max and yes, by popular agreement, bring Parker into this somehow and thereby outdo the Parker appearances in season eight to date. ;)  
_**

**_Leave me your thoughts about Brennan's new understanding... about Bertram's story... about Shakespeare himself. LOL. I promise there will be no more quotes from the Bard!  
_**

**_For The Mixed Tape readers, I won't tell you what episodes (yes plural) we're hitting, but I will reveal the song. If you want to remain oblivious, run away to the bottom of the page and review!  
_**

**_(Shh... Madness, by Muse.)  
_**

**_Until next week!  
_**


	19. Chapter 19

_**AN: At last, we come to the end of our episode... and we have to finish tying up those loose ends of Brennan development I promised so long ago, don't we?  
**_

_**Many of you of course wanted resolution with Max. Many also were keen for Parker ("Who's this 'Parker' you speak of, Casket? I scarcely remember!" *wink*). A few wanted Christine to make an appearance of cuteness. But one of you has caught the Fisher bug and asked for him, too. For the record, Fisher is the most 'Brennan' of the bunch, especially as we learn more about her in this season. Well, of the ones alive, anyway.  
**_

_**In any case, I deliver all of the above in one lovely chapter. Are we ready? **_

_**Shocker: I still don't own Bones. I also don't own anything by Shakespeare, including one last Hamlet quote (sorry, NCISVILLE!).  
**_

* * *

They agreed to meet in the Jeffersonian's gardens – hardly neutral territory, but Brennan felt it better to have what Booth called "home earth" for this discussion. She intended on it being a discussion, anyway; arguing would hardly solve a thing. In reflecting upon their relationship since he'd emerged from the shadows, Brennan had come to realize that her father and she thrived on a combative, yet loving relationship.

There had been enough fighting to last her a lifetime in the previous few weeks.

True to form, he was suddenly there – forever possessing the element of surprise. She recalled her childhood, how he'd always seemed to know exactly where to find her during Hide and Seek. Hiding in plain sight was something she'd inherited from him, or so she believed. No one had truly noticed her until Angela, and then Booth.

"Hi honey," he said quietly.

"Hi."

He shuffled closer, Brennan noting the abnormality in his gait tracing back to his injury two years prior. She studied the wrinkles in his face, the laugh lines and furrows of worry, and was acutely aware of his mortality.

"I'm glad you called," he prodded gently. "Look Tempe, I've been doing a lot of thinking–"

"No," she interrupted firmly. "I've always listened to you, Dad. For six years, it's been about you: your reasons for leaving; your well-meaning actions; your need for a family Christmas that completely overrode a comforting coping mechanism I'd relied on for years – a means of coping with the pain of you and Mom leaving us! For once, I need you to listen to me, _really listen_. If you can't do that, turn around and leave now."

"Okay. Okay, Tempe."

She longed suddenly for Booth: the security of his hand upon the small of her back, guiding her safely to their destination. He was her touchstone, her foundation. No matter how rocky things had been between them over the years, she could always rely on him when she needed him most. In that sense, her father had made great strides. Without the blinding, confusing neurochemistry of anger and betrayal, she could see the good mixed within the bad.

"I don't think you fully appreciate what leaving did to Russ and I," she began quietly. "You say you know, but you don't, Dad. To survive, I pulled my heart deep inside of me, shielded it from everyone in my life, because people couldn't be trusted. Emotions couldn't be trusted. Even Mom told me that once," she added wistfully. "But in opening myself up to Angela, to Booth, I've found those walls falling down. For you – for myself, too – I'd kept them up, kept them sturdy as best I could. But they're gone now, Dad. I can't keep pretending what you and Mom did was okay with me."

"It wasn't okay, Tempe. I've never said it was a good decision; it was just the best decision in a shitty situation," Max replied.

"I was beaten, Dad," she confessed, her voice shrinking away. "Locked in the trunk of a car, left to dehydrate and soil myself. Starved for not completing my chores. Russ left me and I was _hurt_ by people, hurt and then told I was a liar, that I was making it up, that I should be _grateful_ to have a home at all!" She hugged herself tightly, turning away. "I worked a bar when I was underage, was followed home once and nearly raped. I should have had a father to call for a ride! I shouldn't have _needed_ two jobs!"

She heard him sob, just once, but she couldn't face him. Not yet.

"I believed you were dead, knew statistically it had to be so, yet I needed the answers all the same. The one positive thing that came of the hell you put me through was my commitment to anthropology, my aspirations and achievements. I do incredible work. I give families answers. I gave myself answers. Mom..."

"I miss her," he gasped. "Tempe, I miss her so much. I missed you both. I... I thought that Russ would stay."

"Russ was a kid!" she snapped, spinning around. "It took me so long to understand that, but he was just a kid, just a victim of the same horrible circumstances. He knew something was wrong, knew we'd changed our names, but he was your son. Your child. The two of you just left us!"

Max nodded. "You're right. What do you want me to say? I've apologized so many times. I'll do it again if it's what it takes."

"Was it truly Mom's idea to leave us behind?" she asked.

Max hesitated. "I made a choice, Tempe."

"You did. You chose her. Answer the question."

Sinking onto a bench beside them, he nodded. "I wanted to take you kids. I kept telling Ruth that Russ knew enough to understand, that you would simply come if asked. But she insisted teenagers were too difficult, that they would come at us and leave you two alone if we separated. She said... She said I failed to make us disappear the first time, so it had to be her way. But I went along with her."

"You did," Temperance concurred. "But I've held you responsible for the anger two parents created, not one. For that, I'm sorry."

"I was always happy to play the villain, honey. Your mother was wonderful, and I wanted you to remember her that way. I'm the killer. I'm the bad guy."

"You made me the bad guy this summer. I... It was rational. But I started to question whether rational decisions were best this summer. I thought of Booth, and I could see myself, locked inside my bedroom, and he... I love him so much. To inflict that pain upon him..."

"It's a heavy burden to bear, honey. I know. I _know_."

Slowly, she sank to the bench. "I'd forgotten how complex emotions can be, when consumed by them. But Fisher helped me understand why I'd found myself incapable of resolution."

"Fisher? The depressed weirdo squint?"

"He's actually wonderful. We're very alike, Dad. And yes, he was of great help to me." Drawing a deep breath, she continued. "Dad, you have to accept that I have half of my lifetime to be angry about - that's how long my life was altered by what you did. Whether it was a wise decision or not, your criminal past was the reason it had to be made. Russ and I suffered the consequences of your actions. I may always hesitate to trust you, although I strive to weigh the evidence of recent years against your betrayal and adjust accordingly. But I'm still your daughter. I'm..."

The tears began to fall in earnest, and when he embraced her, she didn't resist. She needed her father, needed his assurance that all would be well. She was still angry, still hurt, but also tired of the mask she'd constructed.

Roles were for plays, not for life.

"I love you so much, Tempe. I wish to God I could take it back, take back what people did to you – what _we _did to you. All I can do now is be a good father, if you'll let me."

"You have to let me be angry sometimes," she whispered into his shoulder. "You have to understand that some days, I won't care to be near you. But I do need my father. Christine needs you."

"That's fine by me. Whatever you need, sweetheart. Dish it out, I can take it. Just talk to me, alright?"

Brennan nodded. "Okay. I can do that."

They remained on the bench for several minutes, her head resting on his shoulder as it had many times in the summer. His strength had been the closest thing to Booth she could imagine, and within it, she found the courage to wait, to bide her time.

"You know, your mother was the only real family I ever had, aside from you and Russ," Max told her. "She was the first person to love me for myself."

"She was your Booth," Temperance said.

"Yeah, baby. She was. It was how I knew he was good for you."

She nodded, smiling fondly as Booth's words echoed in her mind: "Right from the beginning..."

* * *

With a dinner invitation tendered for the upcoming Saturday, she bid her father farewell and returned to the lab. Without active cases, the offices were quiet. Cam often encouraged half days as a reward for the overtime the team put in during active investigations. Brennan's only company was the intern in the Bone Room, assembling the remains of a Jane Doe from Modular Bone Storage. At her approach, he glanced up with concern.

"Are you alright, Dr. Brennan?" Fisher asked.

"I am, although I'm certain I look somewhat disheveled," she replied. "Mr. Fisher, I wanted to express my gratitude to you for your assistance."

He shrugged, smiling faintly. "I'm here to work and learn. Although, I have to admit that I never anticipated the use of Shakespeare in the forensic anthropology field."

"Your work was of great value, but that wasn't what I explicitly wished to thank you for."

Without conscious attention, she had moved the right femur into its correct anatomical position upon the steel table. Her hands had sought their familiar comfort. Home. When she'd had nowhere else to go, the lab had become her refuge. Change the place – a school; the Jeffersonian; a tent overseas – but the feeling never changed.

"Your words of wisdom were a framework within which I was able to analyze my confusion and find peace," she continued. "You made the irrational less so. I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to express yourself to me. I know that many find me aloof and unapproachable."

"I never have," Fisher said warmly. "But then again, I'm crazy, so perhaps I'm not the wisest one to assess what is normal and what is not for others."

"I don't find you crazy, Mr. Fisher. You are a gifted anthropologist, burdened with the weight of emotions and painful memories. Where we differ is the ability to compartmentalize. While it's certainly a skill worth developing when working in the field, in one's personal life, it can be problematic." With a soft chuckle, she shook her head. "In a way, I envy your emotional lability."

"You really shouldn't," Fisher insisted. "You've never tasted what passes for food in an institution."

"You feel what you feel. You live. Good, bad, you experience it all. And while the bad isn't necessarily good to dwell upon, aren't the positives worth the metaphorical climb back up?"

He contemplated this for a minute. "I suppose so."

"I'm sorry your mother refuses to see what a truly great son she's raised," Brennan told him. "I know what it is to grow up without praise and support, albeit in different circumstances. But I promise you this: whenever it's darkest, return to the bones. Come back to them. Hear their stories. We're never alone."

He nodded vigorously, his eyes moist. She reached out a hand to squeeze his shoulder, a gesture of comfort her mother had often shared with her as a child.

"'_This above all else: to thine own self be true_'," she quoted, smiling.

"Thank you."

"Go home," she urged gently. "It's been a long case."

"But I _am_ home," he replied.

With a wistful smile, she gestured to the bones. "Well, then, let's begin: what can you tell me about our Jane Doe so far?"

He reached for the skull. "Caucasian female, mid-thirties, yet nulliparous. Cause of death appears to be a single, strong blow to the occipital..."

* * *

_**Saturday**_

"Hey Bones, we're home!"

"Bones! Christine!"

Parker tossed his bag to the floor and ran through the house in search of his sister and "second mom", as he'd explained to his father on the drive from the airport. Booth chuckled, following behind him in anticipation of Parker's impending request to call Temperance "Mom". He could already picture her face lighting up in surprise, even as she gently informed his son that he didn't need to feel obligated to attach a title to their relationship.

Rebecca had been a pain in his ass, refusing this visit for weeks. Work, school, blah blah blah. Booth had lost his summer with his family – his entire family. Fearing Pelant, he'd had to explain to Parker over the phone that they couldn't have their two months together, which had gone over less than optimally. He'd refused to speak to Booth for a month out of fury.

But now, he understood why. It was something Booth had preferred to explain in person, and Parker had appreciated that it was a choice made out of love.

"You still should have let me come, Dad. You were alone," Parker had insisted.

Booth had shook his head firmly. "Your safety comes first, pal. You, Bones, Christine - I can't lose any of you, not ever."

They found mother and daughter in the yard, curled up on a blanket in the sun. The chill of Fall had abated for the weekend, leaving a late summer's glow to grace their weekend. Glancing up from the picture book she was showing Christine, Temperance beamed.

"Parker! You're growing at an accelerated rate!"

"I'm going through puberty, Bones. You're supposed to grow," Parker replied, grinning.

"Get over here. I've missed you!"

Her arms opened and into them Parker fell. Booth grinned, inhaling the fresh air and admiring the perfect scene playing out in front of him. He was_ their_ son, without question. Bones had always embraced him as family, long before they'd untangled the knots of their messy love and found happiness together. Finally, he'd honoured his vow on the steps of that church.

_I have my family back_.

"Christine's so much bigger!" Parker gasped. "Do I seem to grow that fast to you, Dad?"

"Yeah, pal. Even now, it feels like you've grown a foot since we last saw you."

"Actually, he's grown approximately two inches – "

"Bones," Booth interrupted, laughing. "Not literally."

"I know." She smirked, enjoying teasing her partner with intentional obtuseness.

"So Bones, I wanted to ask you a question. A serious one," Parker added, sitting beside her.

"Of course, Parker."

He picked up a nearby stuffed animal, dancing it for Christine before making it kiss her cheek. She burst into giggles, clapping excitedly.

"Par!"

"Parker, that's right," her mother encouraged her.

"She's learning my name? Awesome!"

Booth nodded. "Bones shows her your picture all the time. You may not be here in person, but you're always in our home, Parker."

"That's why I wanted to ask you my questions," Parker replied, smiling.

"Questions _plural_? You only told me one," Booth replied.

"Because one is a surprise for both of you. Now stop interrupting me!" Parker demanded, shaking his head. "Is my Dad always like this?"

"Yes!" Bones agreed.

"Oh sure, gang up on Dad..."

"Bones, if my Dad would ever stop talking, I wanted to ask... well, I call you Bones, because that's what Dad's always called you, and because it's been this special thing."

"It is special. Only Booth men get away with it," she agreed with a smile.

"Well, I wanted to know if... Well, empirically, you take care of me, teach me, encourage me and love me, that's all evidence of you being a mother to me," Parker explained.

"Oh, Parker. You don't have to feel obligated to call me anything but – "

"But you're my Mom. I mean, aren't you? To me, you are."

Her eyes darted to Booth's, seeking reassurance. He nodded and grinned, affirming that their son knew exactly what he was asking, and that it was of his own volition. As he'd predicted, she pulled Parker into a tight embrace, tearing up.

"I am so proud to be your Mom," she whispered. "If you would like to call me that, I would be honoured."

"Thanks... Mom."

"Hey, anyone home?"

"Grandpa Max!" Parker shouted, rushing around to the front gate.

Christine squealed at the flurry of chatter and activity, thumping her bunny against the blanket. Booth hoisted her into the air, dancing her around.

"Look at all these visitors!" he cooed. "And your brother's here for a whole week!"

"Rebecca agreed?"

"Yup."

Brennan found her way to her feet, leaning against Booth with a wide grin. "He wants to call me 'Mom'," she murmured.

"Yeah, he does. Because you're a great one, Bones. The best."

"I sometimes worry," she confessed.

"Don't worry," Booth whispered, kissing her cheek. "Our kids are the luckiest, Bones. I mean that."

Max rounded the corner of the house, clearly in a good mood. "What's this I hear about my grandson finally returning home?"

"Grandpa Max! They don't know!" Parker stomped his foot.

"What's going on, pal?"

Parker sighed. "I was going to ask you later on, but _someone_ has a big mouth."

"I'm guessing you want to live with us, Parker?" Brennan asked.

"Yeah. I love soccer, but I told my Mom I was tired of missing you, and that my friend Jonathan got to choose what parent to live with when he was my age, and I chose you guys. She's only got one more year over there anyway, but I miss you all. Plus, I need to teach Christine all of the Booth tricks."

"I'm certain Rebecca's not thrilled," Brennan whispered in Booth's ear.

"Yeah, I'll have to sort her out." Louder, he replied, "Well, you know we'd love to have you here! Let me talk it out with your Mom, alright?"

"Which one?" Parker asked.

Max smiled at Temperance knowingly as she answered, "Your biological one. I very much support your moving back to live with us. Although, I'm wary of these 'Booth tricks' you mentioned..."

"Well, there's the grin," Parker began.

"Uh uh, bud. Trade secrets," Booth interrupted.

"I think I know this grin very well. Your father's an expert."

"And then, there's the patented batting of the eyes to get ice cream..."

Booth shooed Parker inside, Christine amused by chasing her brother, as Temperance hung back to embrace her father.

"You have a beautiful family, Tempe."

"We do, Dad. They have a good grandfather, one they can rely on when there's trouble."

Max nodded. "Always. And so can you. I'll keep on proving it to you."

"I know you will."

Slipping her arm through his, Temperance Brennan was neither mother nor daughter nor life partner. She wasn't a scientist, nor an author.

She was simply Temperance and at the moment, she was at peace with that.

* * *

**_And that's a wrap! Bam! Max, Fisher, Parker and Christine! Take that, writers! I mean it - take that idea, pay me for it (I write cheap) and make it so.  
_**

**_Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, PMing me, prodding me to post, keeping me sane and/or amused on Twitter... You're a wonderful group of loyal readers. _**

**_I set you to explore Brennan and Max, play with Shakespeare, have a few laughs as well as tears, and make everyone see Fisher just a little differently. Did I succeed? Only you can tell me!_**

**_While you're leaving your final thoughts, put me on author alert and then check out my other stories if this is your first. As always, my Bard readers get sneak peeks and intel, so one last time, here's what's coming at you:_**

**_1) Over on The Mixed Tape this week, a very special season four edition. Here's the deal: everyone who reviews this chapter and requests a tease will receive a tidbit or hint about the next chapter. If you're all clever and chatty, you may just put together a cool picture. If you don't already read The Mixed Tape, it's my favourite Bones story to date and it's full of the sort of character exploration I've done here, so go see!_**

**_2) Over at The Bites of the Partnership Pie (my series of assorted one-shots and prompts), I'll be posting the Vegas story eventually, I freaking swear. I'm also mulling a missing piece of The Shot In The Dark._**

**_3) Once I have time, oxygen for my brain and a few chapters written in advance, I'll be posting a new casefic, prompted by a dare. What sort of casefic? Why, one where a personal effect of Booth's is found on the victim! Gasp!_**

**_4) For those who dig femmeslash, I have been sworn to eventually write an unusual pairing for a one-shot... God, I have a lot to write!_**

**_Again, thank you for reading, reviewing, and sharing this story. _**


End file.
